Year 2
by JustSaraNoH
Summary: In the second school year with this band of elementary school teachers, we open with a new engagement, a new break up, and the usual hijinks and betting pools. Continuation of the 180 Days and Counting series where are intrepid heroes work as teachers at an elementary school.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to story #3 of this series! I can't believe we have a third story and this many words as we do in the 180 Days universe.

But then again, I can't believe Kate and I also know details for story #5.

For those of you who waited on this story being marked complete before you started it, bless you on your patience.

For those of you who didn't, we will do our best to give you our traditional biweekly updates.

Work Text:

"You could just relax a little," Bucky suggested, and Steve grit his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes. "I heard that."

Steve frowned. "Heard what?"

"You make a noise when you're trying not to roll your eyes at me. It's like a weird snort and grunt all rolled into one." Bucky closed the carton of eggs and added them to the grocery cart. "And roll them all you want, I'm not changing my position on this."

"You're acting like this is the nineteenth century and somebody's about to lose their dowry," Steve retorted, and Bucky actually did roll his eyes before he steered the cart into the dairy aisle.

Steve sighed at his back and scratched his fingers through his hair. To be as fair as possible (even though Steve felt a little like somebody'd lit his heart on fire and then forced him to hide the light under a bushel), Bucky was at least half right about their engagement. Sharing it with even one of their friends guaranteed that the rumor mill'd start churning, and suddenly, their relationship'd belong to everyone; Stark, Darcy, and Jessica Drew'd clamp down first, of course, but the rest of the staff, their heckling, and their inevitable comments about sex toys and self-warming lubricant would follow right behind. Never mind the parents and students who'd sniff it out in record time and open them up to god-alone-knew what other color commentary. And none of that even considered Natasha's sudden silence, or her distance, or the way she'd drifted past them in the hallway like a red-headed ghost.

But at the same time, a guy only got engaged once in his life. (At least, Steve hoped that'd be the case for him.) And when he loved you as hard as Bucky did, as loyal as Bucky did, it was natural to want to shout it from the rooftops, right?

"You can't blame me for wanting to shout about this from the rooftops," Steve said a minute or two later, and Bucky jerked his head up from his very serious study of non-dairy creamer. His jaw was tight, almost angling for a fight, and Steve sighed and rubbed the side of his neck. "I'm not saying you're wrong. You might even be right about most of it. But you've gotta understand where I'm coming from, Buck." When Bucky glanced back down at the containers of creamer, Steve nudged his shoulder lightly. "Just put the Thin Mint flavored stuff in the cart and talk to me."

Bucky snorted. "Maybe I wanted something new."

"You threatened to move back in with your mom when I bought the Almond Joy flavor last month," Steve retorted with a little grin. "You're not fooling anyone."

Bucky shot him a sharp little look, but he dropped the bottle of Thin Mint creamer into the cart at the same time. For a second, Steve thought he might walk off in another huff and abandon him there, but instead, he reached back and snagged Steve by his belt loop. Steve grinned and let Bucky drag him along like that, all the way to and through the check-out line. It maybe should've bothered Steve—not the public display of affection as much as Bucky's silence—but every time their eyes met, he saw the storm brewing on Bucky's face, in his far-away gaze.

They'd barely carried all the groceries into the house before Bucky crowded up behind Steve and rested his head on the back of Steve's shoulder.

"I love the hell out of you," he said, his voice low. "It's not like I don't want the world to know it. I just want it to be ours for a couple seconds, you know? No comments, no jokes, no nosy questions about when and where and how many people and what kind of ring. Just the two of us, no interlopers."

Steve grinned. "You're sounding like you wanna elope."

"If it involves you in thin linen pants on a beach, I am there," Bucky returned. Steve laughed a little, and Bucky kissed the back of his neck. "I know it's hard for you," he said as he pulled away and reached for the grocery sack, "but it's—"

"As much about Natasha as everybody else?" Bucky froze at the question, and Steve huffed a sigh. "For the record, that didn't exactly come out the way I wanted it to."

"What, you can't handle being right for the hundredth time?" Bucky retorted with a shrug. He tried to sound casual, almost disinterested, but Steve couldn't miss the tight line of his shoulders or the way he kept his head dipped, his face half-hidden from view. "I'm trying to be a better friend," he said quietly. "I texted her, I called her, and I keep getting the silent treatment. Which, according to you, I deserve, but—"

"I never said you deserved the cold shoulder," Steve defended.

Bucky snorted. "Either way, pretty sure that 'hey, got engaged while you were hiding from whatever's eating you' isn't the way I'm gonna mend this bridge."

He shook his head, almost like when he cleared the cobwebs after a lousy dream, and for a few minutes, Steve just stood out of the way and watched him start filling the pantry with a sort of surgical precision. If he kept his face tilted away from Steve a little, almost like he felt some kind of shame, well—

Well, it honestly made Steve's heart hurt a little, and he hated himself for it.

"You'll see her tomorrow," Steve said, shrugging when Bucky glanced up in confusion. "We'll be back at work full-time, complete with greasy Mexican food and brain-melting staff meetings. You can corner her and apologize to her face."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Because Nat just loves being cornered."

"Consider it revenge for all the times she cornered you and asked pointed questions about that cute art teacher across the hall."

Bucky whipped around so sharply, he almost dropped a can of soup. "There's no way you could know that."

Steve smiled serenely. "She'd close your door, but I'd catch you peeking at me through the window. Sometimes, your ears'd go red."

Bucky almost grinned. "This from the full-body blusher."

"Nice try with the deflection, but I know better."

"So you think," Bucky returned, but he also shivered when Steve reached up and very gently traced the curve of his ear with his fingertips.

Late that night, after they'd organized their work bags and set their alarms, Bucky'd traced lazy patterns on Steve's arm in bed. "She might not talk to me even if I corner her."

Steve pressed his lips to Bucky's shoulder. "You never know until you try."

* * *

><p>Phil walked into the music room and felt a pang of sadness. He missed walking in and not immediately smelling May Parker's perfume, seeing her desk littered with coffee mugs, or hearing her sing under her breath. But that emotion quickly ebbed as he saw what updates the large classroom had been given. "Are those original pressings?" Phil asked as he walked toward the wall with new décor. A series of records and their sleeves were framed and hanging from a row of corkboard attached to the cinder block. Phil knew exactly what all the albums were titled, what tracks were on each record, and an embarrassing amount of random trivia about each. His father had raised him to love all things from the forties, including the jazz band The Howling Commandos and their lead singer, Peggy Carter.<p>

If he had to pick a woman, it would be Peggy.

Just even thinking about the swinging tunes made Phil feel like he was on a road trip with his father on the way to some lake to go fishing. The music brought forth precious memories from his childhood and never failed to make him smile.

"I'd take them out and let you touch them for yourself, but my mom would kill me," the new music teacher answered.

Antoine Triplett—nicknamed Trip—had been hired at the end of the previous school year to take May's position as music teacher. Phil was immensely grateful that the man hadn't bragged about his musical lineage in the interview, because there was no way he wouldn't have geeked out. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that Phil caught wind of the fact that Trip was the grandson of legendary jazz trumpet player, Gabe Jones.

After learning this, Phil proceeded to apparently play a little too much jazz music in the house, because Clint kept turning off his hearing aids.

"As your mentor for your first year, I have a little tradition that I do with each mentee," Phil offered. "You're more than welcome to come over to house for dinner once a week—or every other week if that's too much of a commitment. My husband does the cooking, and it's really good food. We can discuss how things are going, get some out-of-school meeting hours logged, I can help you with lesson planning—as much as I can without being a musician, and whatnot—up to you."

"Sounds great," Trip replied with an easy smile. "What night works best for you?"

"We have a standing engagement on Wednesday nights," Phil said. He considered saying that Tuesdays were off-limits, too, but it'd been weeks since Natasha had come over for dinner and Phil wasn't entirely sure if she would ever resume her weekly meal date with him and Clint. "Other than that, we're really boring and free most nights. You're not allergic to dogs, are you? We have a bulldog."

"No, that's cool. Thanks for doing all of this."

Phil shrugged. "It's not that big of a deal."

Trip shook his head. "Man, I've heard some horror stories of mentor teachers from my education program. I'm glad I'm not going to be stuck in a situation like that."

"Thanks," Phil said as he shuffled on his feet slightly. "Everyone here is usually really nice, especially if you ply them with coffee. Only a few people you have to avoid, like old Missus Howard."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Phil then gathered his wits long enough to run through the important things Trip would need to know: how to enter grades, who to contact in what situation, the schedule for his classes and when he'd be on recess duty. He also warned the first-year teacher about the downside of filling someone else's shoes. "You're going to hear a lot about how 'that's not how Missus Parker did things' over your first year. Some days it will drive you insane, but just think about how the next person in this classroom will hear about all the great things you did."

Trip nodded and gave a shy smile. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

Phil went on to let him know about the breakfast spread Thor had set up in the cafeteria, how his group of friends sat together in the library for the staff meetings (which Trip was more than welcome to join), and how odds were good they'd be going out to lunch together today. "Not that you have to do any of that, well, I mean, you have to go to the staff meeting, but—"

"Nah, I appreciate the invitation. Thank you."

Phil nodded and turned to leave when something gleaming in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He looked in that direction and froze. "Is that your grandfather's trumpet?"

"Yeah," Trip chuckled. "I think he'd want me to bring some noise and funk into my classroom, don't you?" Phil didn't trust himself with any other response than a polite grin. "You wanna hold it?"

"Oh, no," Phil said, shaking his head. "I don't want to break it."

"It's made of metal. Seen a lot of action, so I don't think one new dent will make too much of a difference," Trip reassured.

The offer was incredibly tempting, but Phil declined. "Maybe some other time."

Trip shrugged. "It'll be here."

When Phil walked out of the music room, he saw Clint leaning against the wall in the hallway. His husband was smirking, arms crossed over his muscular chest, and staring intently at Phil's crotch. "Is my fly unzipped?"

"No, I was just looking for a wet spot." Phil rolled his eyes while Clint's smirked grew. "If you're going to blow his trumpet, I should at least get to watch."

Clint laughed as Phil shoved him into the wall.

* * *

><p>Have a good first day with the staff. Don't kill Stark.<p>

Principal Fury smiled at the traditional first day of school (with his staff at least) text from his wife. He was sure to get random updates from Melinda throughout the day on how the middle school was going to shake out this year. He was especially looking forward to her being on the same team as Wade Wilson. They were either going to work amazingly well together, or Melinda was going to kill him before October.

Jasper ducked into his office and placed a paper plate with a couple of frosted doughnuts on Nick's desk. "Made sure to steal a couple good ones for you before the staff descended in their feeding frenzy."

Nick arched an eyebrow at him. "You just happened to find time in your busy schedule to help Odinson set up the breakfast spread?"

Jasper shrugged. "Starting off the school year with a good relationship with the PTO president."

"You still have sprinkles on your shirt." Jasper swore and brushed himself off while Nick hid a smile. "I know how many texts I'm going to be getting from the middle school today. What about you?"

"Maria and I are keeping things professional, sir."

"Oh, is that why you spent half of your summer in her office?" Five years ago, his assistant principal would've floundered around for an answer. Now he just glared at Nick; he'd been trained well. "You two do what you want as long as it doesn't affect how my school is run. Her kids still staying with their dad?"

Jasper nodded. "At least till Christmas. Then they'll reevaluate things."

Nick didn't respond to that. He hoped the kids found the stability they didn't think they had with their mom, but his gut said the kids' dad was a pile of shit. And his gut usually wasn't wrong. "Well," he said as he stood, "I guess we should get this show on the road."

He gobbled down his doughnuts on the way there, and ignored Lewis glaring at him as he approached the library. "If your wife knew—" she started.

"My wife is well-aware that my doctor believes me to be pre-diabetic, whatever the hell that means, and yet she bakes cookies all the damn time. Pretty sure she just married me for my life insurance policy."

The office assistant had the nerve to look impressed, and Nick suddenly found himself pitying the men in her life more than usual.

Nick entered the library and moved to the head table where Pepper was organizing all the handouts and forms for the first half of the day's monotonous review of rules and regulations. The guidance counselor kept glancing over her shoulder at the room's other occupants.

The principal was proud of how well his staff bonded together. Sure, there was always a teacher or two who was hell-bent on keeping their private life private, but for the most part everyone seemed happy to be around each other. Half of the staff was practically each others' relatives at this point, and that usually made Nick happy.

It also made him pop antacids at night for fear that something could go wrong. And apparently his fears were valid. Because instead of sitting at the long table with men who were practically her brothers, Natasha Romanoff was sitting at a table with the two teachers who didn't believe in socializing with co-workers.

"You wanna tell me why Romanoff looks like she wants the earth to up and swallow her?" he asked Pepper.

The counselor's eyes flickered from Natasha over to Stark's end of the table, and Nick sighed as he spotted an extremely forlorn Bruce Banner.

Shit.

He'd heard rumors about the two of them being an item, and he'd sincerely hoped it'd worked out. Both of them deserved some happiness in their life. But instead, it looked like he might have a major problem on his hands, because half of the long table seemed to be focusing on the kindergarten team leader, while the others were whispering to each other while unsubtly looking at the gym teacher.

Barton rose from his seat and stood next to Natasha, arms crossed. The two exchanged some words that Nick couldn't quite hear before Natasha shook her head, gave in, and moved to the open seat between Barton and Danvers. At the opposite end of the table from Banner.

"Is this gonna be a problem?" Nick quietly asked Pepper.

"We're trying very hard to not let it become one, sir."

Nick Fury'd sat in on a lot of parent conferences with Pepper Potts over the last four school years. Which meant he knew exactly what her face looked like when she wasn't able to fully tell the truth.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until they were making car pool arrangements to head out to La Mesa that Bucky realized someone'd slipped away. He pressed his hand to Steve's back, leaned in, and said, "I'll be right back. Leave without me if I'm gone too long." Steve's face turned concerned for a moment, but he nodded and played along.<p>

Bucky spent the walk from the library to the gym with his heart thudding in his chest. Cornering Natasha was never a good idea, no matter what Steve thought. She could be like a wild animal, and when she was scared and hiding, confronting her usually resulted in both of them walking away with injuries.

He found Natasha messing with papers on her desk, and she jumped when she saw him standing in the doorway of her office. "Sorry," he apologized as he raised his hands in a surrendering gesture.

"What are you doing here?"

"Came to ask you the same question. Why aren't you coming to lunch?"

"I've got work to do."

"We've all got work to do, Nat," he said as he slowly moved into her space. "It's forty-five minutes with your friends."

"I'm not hungry."

Bucky rolled his lips to keep himself from calling her out on her shifting excuses. Instead, he took note of how she continued her morning trend of avoiding any and all eye contact with him. "Natasha," he whispered. It only caused her to still, nothing more. "Please tell me what I have to do to earn your friendship again."

He'd apologized more times than he could count, even consulted all his sisters and his ma on what to do, but nothing seemed to work. It only served to deepen the tear in his heart that his best friend of a decade couldn't even look at him.

"Why aren't you telling everyone about the engagement?"

The question literally knocked Bucky back on his heels. "How did you—"

"You told me you had lunch with Steve's mom," Natasha answered in a tone that dripped in the mood of you're an idiot. "Did you really think I thought you were just going to exchange favorite recipes?"

"Sorry," he whispered.

"And you're not telling everyone? I figured Rogers would hire a sky writer."

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a tic he'd picked up from Steve. "I kind of want to keep it quiet for a while."

She stared at him intently for a moment. "I don't need you protecting me."

"That's not—"

"Bullshit."

Bucky sighed and hung his head. He apparently wasn't going to win anyone's favor with this whole mess. "I didn't want to rub it in your face."

Natasha snorted. "Because the two of you aren't sickeningly sweet all the time anyway."

"Nat—"

"You're going to be late for lunch. You should go."

She turned her back on him, and Bucky had a sudden flash back to a moment years ago. Natasha was wearing black then, even though it'd been two months after Alex's funeral. Bucky'd been deployed overseas when his friend was buried. He'd heard from mutual friends that Natasha wasn't handling Alex's death all that well, which was to be expected. She'd looked thinner and empty, and it'd completely gutted Bucky. He'd made a promise then and there that he would never let her look like that again, and he'd failed.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

"For getting what you want?" she questioned. "That's a stupid thing to apologize for."

"For letting you down," he corrected.

She shook her head. "Things fall apart, James. I don't know why I didn't expect any other outcome for my life."

The silence hung heavy in the air between them, and Bucky felt at a loss on what to do. Comforting words never soothed Natasha. Physical contact like a hug could end in him limping out of her office. He knew that she was basically walking around like a spiky porcupine to keep everyone away, but he couldn't find a weak spot in her barrier. It needed to be found soon or else he was going to lose her forever.

"I need a best man."

The words were out of his mouth before he knew the thought was in his head. He wanted to kick himself for pulling her into wedding planning, but he needed an excuse to keep her close and talk to her often.

"Call your brother, maybe you two can have an actual conversation," Natasha replied, face still hidden from him.

"I want it to be you," he told her, and that finally caused her to look up at him. "I know it's really shitty of me to drown you in wedding planning when you're going through this, but your best man is supposed to be your best friend, and you're the only person in the world who fits that bill."

He could see the rebuttal on her lips and he held his breath. "I don't know," she started. "Shouldn't you pick a sister?"

"You are my sister," he replied honestly. "C'mon. Put on a hot dress and make everyone there drool all over you."

She shook her head. "The last time I did that at a wedding—"

"He's an idiot."

For a second, the fierceness he associated with her flared back into her green eyes, and he didn't even care that it was directed at him. "You don't get to say that about him. You don't know what happened."

"Then tell me," he pled. "Please—"

"You're going to be late for lunch," she repeated as she once again when back to organizing whatever she could get her hands on.

"Yeah," he sighed, feeling like a deflated balloon. "Want me to bring you back something?"

"I'll be fine," she huffed.

He debated his next question before giving in to full-on brother mode. "But you're going to eat something, right?" Her glare was all the answer she was going to give, and he once again raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. See you later."

* * *

><p>"Are you, uh, okay?" Peter Parker asked, and Bruce blinked over at him.<p>

In retrospect, Bruce probably should have expected Peter's question, nervously blurted as he peered down at his lesson plans and pretended to look busy. Bruce knew Peter'd finished his first set of plans weeks ago, because Bruce'd looked over them then, the same way he'd looked over Peter's proposed room layout and some of his ideas for different learning stations in the classroom. Peter approached everything with a sort of twitchy enthusiasm that generally made Bruce smile even if, sometimes, he suspected it all came down to not disappointing the beloved Aunt May (and the memory of his equally beloved uncle).

Bruce'd wandered over to Peter's classroom specifically to look in on his progress and maybe glance over his first week lesson plans one last time. Now, standing in front of Peter's (oddly arranged) bookshelves, he watched the other teacher shuffle papers nervously.

Bruce forced a smile. "Pardon?"

"I just—" Peter started, but then he frowned at himself and shook his head. "I'm not saying that you're giving off bad vibes or anything, but I thought maybe you, I don't know, wouldn't be fine? Since Miss Romanoff's living back at her own place and all?" Bruce frowned, and Peter threw up his hands. "Not that it's any of my business, but I know what that sort of thing means, and—"

Bruce shook his head and waved him off. "I'm fine."

"It'd be okay if you weren't fine, too." Bruce felt his brow crinkle at that, but Peter just shrugged and fidgeted a little in his chair. "My freshman year of college, my high school girlfriend and I split up," he said after a moment. "I was, well, kind of a huge mess. We'd planned our whole lives together, and even though that's not the same thing as whatever's up with you and Miss Romanoff, I kind of thought . . . "

He trailed off, his lips pressing into a tight line, and for a moment, Bruce watched him shuffle his lesson plans. He knew Peter meant well—May'd once rolled her eyes and called him incapable of both common sense and intentional insult—but at the same time—

Bruce sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "It's not the same as what you went through, no," he admitted, and Peter flinched slightly. "I'm not devaluing what you said. Or your relationship. In a way, your breakup was probably worse."

Peter frowned. "Uh, how exactly does that work?"

"You planned your future together. Had a unified vision, from the sound of it." Bruce shook his head and glanced down at his hands. "My relationship was, well, different."

The last word hung in the air, and Bruce turned away, back toward the bookshelves. He ran his fingers over the spines of titles he'd seen time and time again at book fairs or up in the library. Somehow, they reminded him of the life plan he used to have and, worse, the one he'd briefly imagined with Natasha.

When he finally drew his hand away, he sighed. "Fool me twice, shame on me," he murmured to himself.

"Aunt May says that all the time," Peter chimed in, and Bruce twisted around again to see that the other man'd ditched his lesson plans to come over and sit on one of the student desks nearest the bookcases. "It was kind of her favorite saying when I was growing up."

Bruce's lips quirked into a tiny smile. "Did you get goaded into a lot of trouble by your friends?"

"More like I goaded her into believing me when I was totally lying," Peter retorted, and he grinned when Bruce chuckled. "I sort of got into more trouble than I was worth? And every time, once the dust settled and she picked me up from detention or somebody's house or from the police station—which only happened once—she'd just shake her head and say 'fool me twice.'"

"It's the risk you run when you care about someone," Bruce pointed out.

"That's exactly what she said, too." Bruce fell quiet at that, his hands sliding into his pockets, and Peter glanced down at his sneakers. "I'm not qualified to actually help you with any of this," he admitted, "but I'm pretty good at listening to people talk about things I have no experience with and offering pretty useless advice."

Bruce almost chuckled. "I'm not sure there's any advice you could offer. I think the situation is what it is."

"Maybe, but you still obviously care about each other." Bruce frowned, but Peter just shrugged. "Trust me from my college break up: you don't carve out that wide a berth when it doesn't matter. Or spend all your time and energy avoiding eye contact during a staff meeting."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I wasn't avoiding—"

"Yeah, and Barton didn't keep stroking the inside of Mister Coulson's thigh when he thought nobody was looking." Bruce snorted a laugh, and Peter mock-glared at him. "It was disturbing. I'm pretty sure my aunt looks at them as, like, her hot younger brothers or something. I don't need to think about them like that."

"You're starting to sound like Tony."

"Maybe Tony's saner than I usually give him credit for." Bruce actually laughed at that, and Peter grinned as he hopped off the desk. "My point," he said after a beat, "is that you can care and be not-fine, and that's okay. It probably makes more sense than all the other reactions you could have."

"Such as?"

"Silly-stringing her car, for instance." When Bruce blinked, Peter raised his hands. "I absolutely don't know anything about this from experience. It's just an example."

Bruce grinned. "Did you fool your aunt twice, in this hypothetical?"

Peter shrugged. "Well, I did mention that she once picked me up from the police department . . . " he replied, and Bruce couldn't help laughing again.

* * *

><p>"Care to make a wager on today's game, Mister Rogers?" Barnes asked with a gleam in his eye, and Tony seriously considered vomiting all over the gymnasium.<p>

As far as Tony Stark was concerned (and don't repeat this to another human being or even particularly intelligent house plant), the yearly dodgeball game between the various grades and the specials was a sacred ritual. It deserved its own Olympics-style fanfare and theme, never mind an opening ceremony and symbolic fire-phallus.

But instead of participating in the pageantry their teambuilding rightfully deserved, Tony had to suffer through nauseating display that was the Rogers-and-Barnes flirtation hour.

He wondered whether he'd been a merchant of death in a past life or something.

"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep rolling your eyes like that," Pepper commented as she walked past in her capri yoga pants and perfectly sized school t-shirt. Tony pursed his lips, ready to whistle at her magnificent ass, but he stopped when she held up a finger. "No."

Tony plastered on his most innocent face. "No what?"

Pepper narrowed her eyes. "I can practically smell when you're about to make a lewd comment, and the stack of paperwork on my desk promises that I am not in the mood."

"Unless I put you in the mood," Tony returned, and she rolled her eyes at his eyebrow waggle. She bent down to tie her shoes, which offered so much fuel for so many amazing comments that he literally had to bite the inside of his cheek for a second. At least, until he added, "I can be an equal-opportunity letch if you'd prefer. Wolf-whistle at the Jessicas. Ogle Darcy's terrifyingly tight t-shirt. Snap Danvers's bra."

"If you want to lose your hand, you go right ahead," Danvers said from behind him, and Tony nearly leapt out of his shoes. She wore a tank top and shorts, because apparently, dodgeball counted as uniquely serious business. She also crossed her arms under her chest. "What, no witty comeback?"

"No, just picturing whether you'd use a butcher's knife or a katana, because I think it's kind of fifty-fifty," Tony retorted, and Danvers actually cackled before she went to join her team. Tony's nigh-on scientific selection process for the two Specials teams once again relegated Natasha and Carol to the same group, only this time, they also included Mount Rogers and the new music teacher. Tribble? Triple? Something like that, anyway. Tony's group of pathetic stragglers (including Coulson and, sadly, his wife) looked like limp-wristed diaper babies compared to all the corded muscle before them.

Tony wondered if somebody'd rigged his deck of team-selection notecards.

"Today's tournament is brought to you by the new coffee pot in the teacher's lounge," Darcy Lewis announced from atop the bleachers, and everyone turned to her in appropriately reverent admiration. She wore a skin-tight Procrastinators of the World Unite Tomorrow! t-shirt that kind of made Tony wonder what her after school plans were. "Coffee: the lifeblood that helps us survive all those very persistent small people who clog up our lives for eight hours a day. And a moment of silence for Greta, our sadly dead old coffee pot that Stark still denies breaking."

"I deny it because I'm innocent!" Tony reminded all of them for the fifty-seventh time, and he swore to god that the entire staff rolled their eyes in perfect unison. "The Constitution says that I'm innocent until someone proves me guilty."

"Bill of Rights," Barton corrected.

"You only know that because you're married to the most boring man on Earth," Tony retorted.

"And still we probably have more sex than you," Coulson said blandly, and Tony shuttered.

"Enough heckling from the peanut gallery, your master of ceremonies is talking to you!" Darcy shouted into the bullhorn, and the feedback alone was enough to make them all cringe. She planted her free hand on her hips. "You know the rules: double elimination tournament brackets, team with the last teacher standing advances, no bonus points for bloody noses. By popular vote—and by that, I mean I had my b—buddy pick a team at random last night—Specials 2 has a bye on the first round. Let us now pause to threaten their reproductive livelihood and insult their mothers, because they deserve it."

Most the "insults" came in the form of everybody laughing at Darcy's line while the shitheads on the second specials team—you know, the hot, muscular shitheads who Tony wanted to systematically destroy—exchanged high-fives and congratulatory back pats.

"We are so fucked," Tony muttered to no one in particular.

"Speak for yourself," Jessica Drew returned. She'd smeared liquid eyeliner on her cheeks like war paint. "We've got the new kid, and he's spry as shit."

"I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not," Peter Parker muttered. Drew clapped him on the back hard enough he almost fell over, and Tony snorted at both of them.

"And now that Specials 2 knows that their asses will be well and truly handed to them in the next round," Darcy cut in, "our first round is Specials 1 versus the kindergarten, first grade, and pre-k teachers! Noncombatants, clear the gym, and let's play ball!"

Darcy then immediately held her cell phone up to the bullhorn and blasted the Olympic Fanfare through it while the teams lined up, mostly because she understood the pomp and circumstances in a way that others didn't. Tony surveyed the competition with his best and most ruthless face, trying very hard to swallow down his disappointment that Bruce hadn't shown up. If anybody needed to blow off some steam, it was his platonic life partner and forever-BFF.

"He wanted to work on his room," Pepper said at Tony's side. He blinked at her, and she cocked her head. "You really think I don't know who you're looking for?"

"Maybe I'm just running the odds in my head," he shot back. "I might be the Nate Silver of elementary school dodgeball statistics."

On his other side, Coulson huffed a laugh. "And I'm the most boring man on Earth."

Tony shrugged. "Another thing proven by statistics," he said, and barely dodged the guy's very well-thrown elbow.

The games went by as quickly and sloppy as they usually did, with Tony's team trouncing their competition and the fourth-and-fifth grade team doing the same to the second-and-third grades. But the second-and-thirds rallied in the second elimination round, advancing just in time to face—and then lose to—Tony's team. True to Tony's predictions, the second specials team roundly smeared the fourth-and-fifth grade teachers into the ground without breaking a sweat.

Tony hated them.

"And now, for the championship!" Darcy announced once they'd gulped some water and stretched, and there they were: Tony's band of idiots versus the most terrifying clump of teachers the world'd ever seen.

"You know I ran a whole lot this summer, right?" Danvers asked as they assumed the usual positions.

"You know I spent a lot of time in my pool?" Tony fired back, and half their damn team snickered.

In retrospect, because hindsight (like the other specials team) was a bastard, Tony didn't know how the teams got whittled down to just him and Pepper versus Natasha and Danvers. Maybe it was fate, dumb luck, or just the fact that Rogers kept mooning over his fucking boyfriend instead of throwing the dodgeballs, but either way, Tony ended up staring down the two women with fire in his eyes—and in his heart. Balls flew around him, flung with a vengeance, as he and Pepper both hopped, skipped, and jumped out of the way.

"This is still not a better workout than sex!" he reminded her at one point, and she rolled her eyes before flinging a ball right at Danvers's midsection—and missing by a half-inch at most.

Tony grinned at her, even winked, but then he saw his opening. Because in the Pepper-versus-Danvers exchange, Natasha'd lost track of a couple of the balls, and now she was running off to collect them. She bent to pick one up, and Tony— For the first time all afternoon, he had a clear shot. The clearest shot. The kind of shot that, in a movie, would involve heavenly choirs and a spotlight on Natasha's not-unimpressive rear end.

He pulled back his arm back, ball clutched in his hand. The crowd was laughing and cheering, Darcy was commentating, and Bruce—

Bruce wasn't there.

It hit Tony like a flash of vengeful lightning that Bruce, the guy who'd been part of the staff longer than most of them, the guy who'd brought Tony to the damn school, he was not in the room.

He knew the second he released the ball that he threw it a whole lot harder than was maybe recommended.

Natasha raised her head just as Tony released the ball, her eyes wide with surprise either at who'd thrown it or how fucking fast it was coming. She moved like a blur of red hair and white tank-top, her body twisting to get her hands in front of the damn thing. She clamped her fingers around it a half-second before it slammed into her gut, and by some miracle, she held onto it even as she staggered back a half-step.

"And that's Stark, down for the afternoon!" Darcy crowed from her spot in the bleachers, but Tony hardly heard her. No, instead, he just saw (and felt, and maybe even somehow heard) the red-hot flash of anger across Natasha's face and the way she tightened her jaw.

Because she knew how hard he'd thrown it.

She knew why he'd thrown it.

And when she spiked that ball into the ground before she stalked off to help protect Danvers from Pepper's last couple futile throws, Tony knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was so, so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, are you seriously cool with your aunt having a younger boyfriend, or are you faking it?"

Peter jerked his head up from his stack of spelling pre-tests to find Antoine Triplett looming in the doorway to his classroom. They'd only talked once or twice—mostly during some of the "new teacher" orientation stuff down at the district offices—and even then, it'd been polite conversation and nothing in the soul-baring or male-bonding departments.

"Ten-out-of-ten would bang," Wade Wilson'd said after their last day of orientation, and Peter'd rolled his eyes. "What? You know what they say about once you go dark mochalicious brown, right? Because from what I hear, once you go brown, you're going all the way—"

"Please stop talking," Peter'd cut in, and that'd ended any further conversations about Antoine Triplett.

"I hit a nerve?" Triplett asked, and Peter only really realized he'd fallen into his own thoughts when the other man raised his hands. "Because I don't mean to go there, it just kind of struck me that—"

"You saw my aunt with her—whatever-he-is?" Peter blurted. "She's not bringing him around to the school, is she?"

"Nah, nothing like that," Triplett promised, and Peter finally felt like he could breathe again. "She called me over the weekend and asked if I wanted a couple of old songbooks she found when she was cleaning out the basement. I headed over there, her guy answered the door, and that was that." He shrugged. "He seems okay. For the record."

"He's something," Peter muttered.

Triplett cringed a little. "Okay, since I definitely hit a nerve, I'm gonna—"

"No, it's okay, I—" Peter started, but the words got stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. Triplett leaned back against the doorjamb while Peter shook his head and tried to clear all the stupid cobwebs that kept refusing to go away. "Aunt May's never really introduced us," he said after a beat, "and she— She doesn't really do cagey, but she's about as secretive with her and him and what's going on over there as she's ever been. And even though the guy's staying in my old room and not with her, it's still . . . "

"Weird?" Triplett suggested.

Peter snorted. "It's crazy weird."

Triplett grinned a little. "I hear you on that. Especially if they're not in some sort of romantic relationship, because then, it's kind of like you've been replaced by a guy who's got twenty years and a lot of worry lines on you." Peter scowled, and Triplett laughed. "Hit another nerve?"

"You didn't until you started referring to the mystery guy as the replacement Peter," Peter grumbled.

"Barney," Triplett said out of nowhere. Peter felt his brow crinkle in confusion, and Triplett shrugged. "Heard your aunt call him Barney, if that helps."

"It'd only help if he turned into a big purple dinosaur and got lost," Peter retorted, and Triplett laughed again.

* * *

><p>Bruce loved the beginning of the school year. He enjoyed the challenge of learning all the new names and faces that would come through his classroom. He spent most of the day smiling as he listened to new stories and memorized names of siblings, pets, and parents.<p>

That joy ebbed slightly this August, and Bruce hated himself a little for it. His stomach churned whenever he had to line up his students to go to gym class. He and Natasha barely made eye contact during the drop-offs and pick-ups. It didn't mean he didn't crave hearing reports from his students about what they did in her class; that, he desperately wanted to know. Even if he knew he was overanalyzing every single line that came out of their mouths. In the past, some of his kids were scared of Natasha until they got to know her. She was very intimidating, but this school year it was difficult for Bruce to convince himself that her attitude didn't have anything to do with him. It probably did, and he deserved that.

He hated how conversations seemed to suddenly hush whenever he walked into the staff lounge for coffee in the mornings. On the second day of school, Natasha had walked in a few seconds after him, and he swore that he heard an anticipatory gasp. Whether the others expected an all out battle between the two of them or for Bruce to sweep Natasha into some romantic and repentant kiss, he wasn't sure.

When Bruce told Tony about it, the technology teacher said he was crazy.

But the way he avoided making eye contact with Bruce said something else entirely.

Gossip and rumors, and the damage they caused, were something he tried to eliminate in his classroom as much as humanly possible. The lessons and warnings against it might leave his students' minds as soon as they matriculated to the first grade, but at least he could comfort himself with the knowledge that he tried.

There were very strict rules for sharing time in his class. The first was that the story had to be true. Imagination could be used in many other parts of the day, but not during this time. The second was that they couldn't hurt anyone's feelings, even if that person wasn't in the room. It always took a few weeks for these two things to get stuck in his students' brains.

On the fourth day of school, Alva—the last of the Odinsons for Bruce to teach—raised her hand. Like her classmates, she squirmed in her seat as she did so. "Yes, Alva," Bruce said, calling her before she pulled something trying to restrain her excitement.

"I get to go to a party," she announced, her features lighting up so much that even Bruce couldn't help but smile a little.

"Oh yeah?" Bruce asked. "Is it a birthday party?"

"No," she answered as her face crinkled in thought for a second. "I think it's a 'Miss Darcy and Uncle Loki are going to get married' party."

Bruce felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline while his class broke out into murmurs about weddings and wondering who Alva was talking about.

The girl sighed wearily. "Miss Darcy works in the office. She does the announcements. You don't know my Uncle Loki because he only comes here to pick up me and my brothers if our Mama and Daddy can't and we're not allowed to go to daycare because the boys did something bad."

"Alva," Bruce responded in his warning tone, "what's rule number one?"

He watched her eyes squint as she tried to remember one of the many new rules in her life thanks to the elementary school. But then her shoulders slumped. "But it is true, Doctor Banner. There's going to be a party because they're going to get married."

"Why do you think they're getting married?" Bruce questioned.

"Because George and I saw them holding hands and kissing," the girl answered. "That means they're boyfriend and girlfriend, and that means they're going to get married. And I'm going to be the flower girl."

"Alva, I—" Bruce stopped himself. The girl was looking up at him with the biggest brown eyes imaginable, and he knew what words he was about to spit in her face. Words about how not all boyfriends and girlfriends get married. How sometimes, it goes up in flames, or fades away into a whisper, or becomes such a huge mess that you really have no idea what went wrong.

"I think you need to check with Miss Darcy about what kind of party it will be," he said to correct his original train of thought.

Alva shrugged. "She said it was a party about her and Uncle Loki."

A couple of hours later, Bruce ducked into the front office after walking his morning students out to the busses. Darcy paused in her scribbling on a neon orange post-it to look up at him with a smile. "What's up, Doc?" she asked.

"Alva thinks you're going to have a party with her Uncle Loki to announce your engagement and name her flower girl."

Darcy visible paled at Bruce's words. "That little twerp said what?" Her head flopped backwards with a sigh. "You cannot tell Jane or Thor about this. At all. We've been hiding from them all summer. Alva and George spotted us a couple weeks ago at Henry's baseball game."

"What's it worth to you?" Bruce asked. Normally he'd say it as a joke, but an idea sprang into his head that he couldn't quite ignore.

"Dude, I would do anything if you don't tell her parents about this. They'd either murder us for lying to them or murder us with joyful hugging. Have you seen Thor's arms?"

Bruce leaned in a little closer. "I'll keep quiet as long as you do something for me."

"Anything," Darcy breathed.

"Any time you hear someone talking about me and Natasha, you shut the conversation down."

Darcy crumpled in on herself a little, but nodded. "Is there a word in the English language that combines 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry?'"

"Not that I know of," Bruce replied. "But I'd appreciate it if you kept your end of the bargain."

Darcy nodded. "Consider me on rumor mill police."

* * *

><p>"You're stressed out," a shockingly familiar voice said from inside Aunt May's living room, and Peter froze with his hand around the doorknob. "You need some stress relief."<p>

"Because you're the expert in that department?" Aunt May asked.

The other voice laughed. "Well, obviously, or did you miss that when I crept out the back door last weekend?"

Aunt May laughed too, and for a second, Peter considered turning around and leaving the scene of the crime. But he'd promised up, down, left, right, and backwards to fix Aunt May's computer, and that meant walking through the front door.

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed inside.

"Hey, Pete!" Jessica Drew greeted from where she was, weirdly, stretched out on the couch and armed with a hand of playing cards. "Long time no see!"

Peter frowned and dropped his bag by the door. "You saw me at school today."

"Two whole hours ago," she said with a wave of her hand. Across the table from her, Aunt May shook her head while releasing the sort of long-suffering sigh she usually saved for Peter himself. "A lot can change in two hours, May. You know that."

"I left for two hours last Saturday, and look what happened," Aunt May deadpanned. Jessica cackled at that, her voice a little like a cartoon witch, and Aunt May rolled her eyes before she glanced over in Peter's direction. "If you're hungry, there's leftovers in the microwave, and I think there's still beer in the fridge."

"You think?" he repeated dumbly.

She shrugged. "Barney's the one who drinks it, not me," she reminded him as she discarded the six of hearts, and Peter forced a smile as he walked into the kitchen.

He skipped the food but grabbed a beer from the fridge, trying very hard not to listen in on Jessica and Aunt May's conversation as he retreated into his aunt's home office. Jessica kept laughing about something while also complaining about her gin hand, and every time, Aunt May came back with a wry, amused retort. Peter buried himself in the tasks at hand—running virus scans and drinking beer—and desperately avoided thinking about his aunt, Jessica, and—

The door popped open out of nowhere, and Peter spilled beer down his shirt as he whirled around in the desk chair. Looming in the doorway, naked from the waist up, was his aunt's whatever-he-was. They stared at each other for a moment, and Peter pretended not to notice how Barney's hip bones jutted out over his waistband like something out of that male stripper movie Gwen made him watch.

"Uh, sorry," Barney half-mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "May keeps the extra towels in the closet, and I—"

"Needed one?" Peter asked dumbly.

"Right."

"Right," Peter echoed, and they sort of nodded at each other awkwardly before Barney headed to the closet.

Peter stared back at the computer screen, his heart rate slowly returning to normal, and he definitely resisted his urge to turn around and give Barney a second once-over. Down the hall in the living room, his aunt laughed, and her warm voice wrapped around him like an embrace. He swore under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Thanks," Barney said suddenly, and Peter jerked around to see that he'd slung a towel around his neck. "See you around."

"Yeah." He watched the other man step out into the hallway before he blurted, "Hey, Barney?"

Barney blinked at him over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"I, uh," Peter started, but the words dried up. He stared at his beer bottle and scratched a hand through his hair. "You're good for Aunt May," he decided. "Good to, I don't know, have around."

Barney pressed his lips together. "Thanks, I think."

Peter nodded and even sort of waved at him on his way out the door. Problem solved, then.

Well, except for the way Jessica'd laughed like a banshee when she saw him at school the next morning. No, that felt like a problem that was just barely starting.

* * *

><p>Pepper strode into her home after school and felt her blood start to boil at the sound of the television echoing through the house. She'd stoked her anger all afternoon, fanning the flames through two district-level meetings for school psychologists; now, striding into her living room, she felt the heat lick at her face.<p>

"Hey, Pep," Tony greeted without glancing away from American Chopper, "I ordered you one of your super-healthy white pizzas for dinner, so when my extra-large Brooklyn-style pepperoni shows up, you can't— Ow!"

Tony whirled around, his hand clamping down over where Pepper had just smacked him on the back of his head. "What the hell, Pepper?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Today, or in general?" he retorted. "Because if it's in general, I warned you about nine-tenths of my shit before we ever walked down the aisle, and we're kinda past the statute of limitations on—"

"That is not what I mean, and you know it," Pepper shot back, and he snapped his mouth shut. They stared at each other for a moment, Tony's eyes wide with confusion as Pepper worked to keep her barely contained temper from scalding both of them. "Natasha," she said after a beat.

Tony frowned. "As in Romanoff?"

"As in what you are doing to Natasha Romanoff." He rolled his eyes, all his surprise replaced by open disdain, and Pepper grit her teeth as he slid to his feet. "I saw how hard you threw that dodgeball," she pressed as he turned off the television and started to walk away, "and I have tried to let it go as one of your 'moments.' But between the nasty side-eye during bus duty—"

Tony snorted and waved a hand over his shoulder. "I don't side-eye."

"Would you rather I call it open glaring?" He ignored her to walk into the kitchen, and she followed on his heels. "Between the nasty side-eye," she repeated, "the cold shoulder, and your participation in the rumor mill—"

He thumped a hand against the front of the fridge and whirled around. "I am not participating in the rumor mill."

"I heard Darcy shut you down three times today," Pepper shot back. He tried to turn back toward the fridge, but she stepped between him and the offending appliance. "I don't care what you do with Bruce to help him through this," she informed him curtly, "but if you're interfering with Natasha, that's a problem."

He scoffed at her. "Because Natasha Romanoff deserves even one iota of the benefit of the doubt, here."

Pepper resisted her urge to roll her eyes. "You of all people should know that it takes two to tango."

"Not when it's Bruce, it doesn't," Tony returned.

"Because Bruce is incapable of all wrongdoing?"

"In this case, yes!" His voice rose, almost cracking, and Pepper blinked and reared back half a step. Tony stared at her for one wide-eyed beat, their kitchen impossibly silent— And then, just as quickly, he deflated. "That day he and I came home to watch bad movies and drive you crazy, I found him at Xavier's," he said for the first time, and Pepper swallowed as her mouth dried out. "Brother in sobriety, guy who literally hasn't touched booze since his wife died, and I find him at a dive bar in the middle of the day, staring at a ginger ale like maybe it needs a spike of something stronger to help solve his problems." He threw up his hands. "He's avoiding every school activity where he might run into her, he's ducking out early or staying late, and worse of all, he's avoiding me. And all of that shit, Pep? That's on her."

"Natasha isn't responsible for Bruce's happiness," Pepper reminded him, and he rolled his eyes. "You know she's not. Worse, you know that whatever happened between them—"

"Is part of their joint effort to become miserable misers who cut their best friends out of their lives?"

"—is something they need to work out themselves," she finished. He waved her off to stalk out of the kitchen, and she trailed after him. "I know you think Bruce is somehow your responsibility," she said, "and that you need to take care of him for some reason, but treating Natasha like public enemy number one isn't going—"

"She got one chance," Tony broke in suddenly, jabbing a finger in Pepper's direction. "She got one free heartbreak, one no-judgment fuck-up, and she blew that on the first time they split up. And now, Bruce is a mess all over again and I can't— The guy who helped me figure out what to do when my life was a mess, and I'm not even able to—"

His voice and hand both shuddered slightly, and just like that, Pepper felt her whole body soften. By the time she curled her fingers around his fist, the last remnants of the fire in her belly'd dimmed to embers; once she wrapped arms around Tony, only steam remained. "Bruce isn't going to fall apart over this," she assured him, her fingers carding through his hair. "Even if it's hard right now, he's survived so much worse that I can't imagine—"

"I've never seen him look this bad, Pep," Tony murmured against her neck, and Pepper sighed as she pressed her lips against his temple. "I've known him for years, and I've never seen him look as lost and alone as that day I swung by Xavier's and found him staring at his glass."

They lingered in the kitchen for a long time after that, Tony's breath warm against her skin as she held onto him. They only broke apart when their pizzas arrived, and even then, they sat together on the couch to eat, Tony's thigh pressed to hers. He never promised to be better to Natasha, exactly, but he showed it somehow in the way he brushed Pepper's hair out of her face as they cleaned up the dishes and in how he ran his hands over her skin in bed. And if she goaded him into apologizing to the gym teacher somewhere in the middle of it all— Well, you couldn't blame a woman for playing to her strengths.

After Tony fell asleep, though, Pepper picked up her phone and flicked through her contacts until she reached the Rs.

I'd like to talk sometime, she texted Natasha, and fell asleep waiting for a reply.

* * *

><p>"You seen Banner around?" Clint Barton asked Tuesday afternoon, and Peter almost nailed his head on the bottom of a student desk.<p>

To be fair, he'd ducked under the desk to scrape gum off the floor. Grape-flavored Bubbilicious, to be exact, and he scowled when he realized some of the sticky devil-goo had even lodged under his fingernails. He wiped his hands on his pants before he climbed up off the floor. "Turns out that second graders don't really believe the 'no gum in the classroom' rule until they've smeared it all over your life," he said.

Barton snorted. "You think they've learned that lesson by the time they get to fifth grade?"

Peter cringed a little. "If I say that I hope so, are you going to pull a Stark and mock me for my boundless youthful optimism?"

Barton shrugged. "Probably not to your face, no."

His grin—warm, toothy, and only vaguely evil—coaxed an unexpected laugh out of Peter, his first since bubblegeddon. "To answer your question," he said after a moment, "I haven't talked to Bruce yet today. He's implemented this rule where I need to, quote, 'cool my jets' for the first ten minutes after I think I need him, and I still have—" He glanced at the wall clock. "Six minutes to go."

Barton's eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. "Please say you're jerking me around."

Peter scratched the back of his neck. "I'm maybe one-fifth jerking you around?" he replied a little shakily.

"God, you're worse than when Steve first started here. I thought I might be in the market for a second husband, the way he flashed puppy-dog eyes at Phil every afternoon." Peter laughed again, and Barton offered him one of his easy smiles. "Well, if you see Banner, can you tell him I'm looking for him? In a professional capacity."

Peter blinked. "As opposed to . . . "

"He'll know what I mean."

"Okay," Peter agreed, and Barton nodded. He looked about ready to leave, too—at least, until Peter shoved his hands in his back pockets and fidgeted like an idiot. Then, Barton raised his eyebrows all over again and lingered.

Peter swallowed. "Can I ask you a question? Sort of a tit-for-tat kind of thing?"

Barton smirked. "Unless your girlfriend's packing heat, the only kind of foursome we're interested in is—"

"I— Oh god, no, I didn't—" Peter stammered, and just to punctuate his point, he waved his hands in front of his face. Embarrassing and shameful heat climbed up out of his collar and spread all over his face. He wondered for a half-second if he could kill himself with his gum-scraping spade, but Barton just laughed. "Please never tell Gwen I almost propositioned you for a foursome," he said quickly.

"You think she's not into that?" Barton asked smugly.

"I think she'd want to go for Rogers and Barnes next, actually," Peter retorted, and that wiped the grin right off Barton's face. He decided to save his victory for later, though, and dropped his hands back into his pockets. "I just wanted to know if my aunt and Jessica Drew ever, I don't know, hung out before I started working here."

Immediately, Barton frowned. "Hung out?"

"Yeah. Like, spent time together. Outside of school, just the two of them." Barton's confused expression grew, and Peter sighed. "You know what? It was a stupid question. I mean, just because two grown women play gin together and talk about their crazy Saturday nights doesn't mean—"

"Wait, Jessica was at your aunt's house?" Barton suddenly cut in. Instead of looking confused, he looked almost like those weird paintings of newly enlightened religious leaders, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. Peter blinked blankly at him. "If Jessica's at her house, she could— But, if it's Jessica, then—"

"Are you having a stroke?" Peter asked carefully.

Barton shook his head hard enough that it rattled Peter's teeth. "New rule," he said, holding up a hand. "Never tell me when and if Jessica is over at your aunt's. I don't care if she's saving orphaned puppies from a fire, I don't want to know a single thing about what she is getting up to over there. You understand?"

"Getting up to?" Peter squeaked.

"On second thought," Barton said, backing out the door like he'd missed Peter's very important question, "I'm just going to pretend we never had this conversation. Better for my mental health."

"But what did you mean 'getting up to?'" Peter called after him, but he knew from the echo of his own voice in the hallway that Barton'd already fled.

* * *

><p>Bruce stepped over the Xavier's threshold and felt his skin tighten. The last time he was here, Tony pulled him away in the middle of the afternoon. Bruce, despite his AA chip, never really considered himself an alcoholic. Sure, he had a couple nights of heavy drinking in undergrad, but that was about it. His choice to be in Alcoholics Anonymous was one to pay respect to Betty.<p>

But that afternoon, Bruce would've been happy to drink the world away. Sober was the last state he wanted to be in. And while he was grateful that such an urge was no longer something coursing through him, it still made him a bit uncomfortable to think about how low he'd been.

Tony waved him over to the small table he sat at with Pepper. "Get this man an iced tea," Tony shouted into the air. Pepper, who rolled her eyes, seemed to be the only who paid attention to him.

"You guys want anything?" Bruce asked once he got to the table.

"A time machine to go back to the start of summer," Tony answered. "I swear I can already feel a cold coming on.

"We're good," Pepper said. "But if you want to split an order of fried pickles, we can gross out Tony."

"Got it," Bruce chuckled before heading towards the bar.

Payday happy hour was a tradition that stretched back before Bruce's time. He was pretty sure that the group of teachers kept the dive bar afloat with their biweekly patronage.

Bruce placed his order and drummed his fingers along the scarred bar top. But a second later, he smelled faint perfume that weeks ago had inhabited his bathroom. The scent caused his stomach to coil, and he suddenly thought Tony might be on to something with his desire for a time machine.

"Hey," Bruce greeted.

"Hi," Natasha replied.

"School year starting off okay for you?" he asked.

Natasha shrugged. "No one's peed on anything yet. You?"

"Same," he said with a small smile. "Umm, there's an open seat over at our table if you want to join."

Natasha looked past him to where Tony was sitting, and her expression darkened slightly. "I don't think that would be a good idea," she said. "But thanks."

She moved away to retake her seat at the table with Clint, Phil, and the new music teacher. A minute later, Bruce's order was ready. As he walked back to the table, he thought about whatever look Natasha had aimed at Tony and Pepper. Bruce was fairly certain the guidance counselor was not the target of the glare.

Bruce set down the fried pickles between him and Pepper, ignored her excited noise, and kept his focus on Tony. "What did you do?"

Tony's eyebrows rose in confusion. "You're going to have to narrow the timeline when discussing my awesomeness."

"Tony," Pepper warned.

"What did you do to Nat?" Bruce questioned.

Tony ducked his head, which was as chided as he ever bothered to look. "It was- I let my emotions get the better of me."

"He already apologized," Pepper interrupted. "I made sure of it. And we have a new rule about not letting him near any dodge balls."

Bruce gave a disgruntled sigh and didn't push the issue, figuring it would only lead to more conflict, and he'd had enough of that in his life lately. But that didn't necessarily keep him from sending the occasional glare in Tony's direction.

He loved his friend like the sober brother in arms he was, but Tony hadn't been home a lot this summer. He and Pepper usually spent most of their time off traveling. Tony hadn't been around all that much when everything went to shit, and he really didn't get to be judgy about things now. He hadn't earned that right.

Bruce kept quiet and munched on his fried pickles. Pepper at least picked up on his foul mood and did her best to distract her husband. While she did that, Bruce looked over to where Natasha was sitting.

At the moment, she was engaged in a conversation with the new music teacher, Trip or whatever. Their heads were ducked together as they talked, and the sight of Natasha smiling caused a bit of the tension in his shoulders to relax. But then, his brain started to go into horrible overdrive.

If Trip could make her smile, and Bruce knew it was a genuine one, then what else was he capable of? Would he become her new friend? Maybe even her new friend with benefits? His mind immediately flooded with those potential images: Natasha in bed with the new teacher, her pale body against his dark skin, two incredibly athletic bodies moving together and-

"What do you think, Bruce?"

He shook his head and swallowed thickly. "Sorry, what?" he asked Pepper.

"Peter Parker," she clarified. "How do you think he's doing?"

"Umm, I think so far he's okay," Bruce said, scrambling for an answer. "We've only been in school for a few days, so kind of hard to tell."

Pepper redirected the conversation on to another topic, the grocery list for her and Tony maybe, but Bruce was already tuned out again. Natasha laughing was a distracting thing. And apparently not only for him, because a pair of third grade teachers at the next table over we're looking back and forth between him and Natasha, whispering loudly to each other. Bruce caught their eye and send them a dark look, and they immediately pulled innocent faces and shut up.

He wondered how many other people were talking about his personal life right now. Where was Darcy when you needed her? Probably with the famed Uncle Loki.

"I'm gonna go," Bruce announced as he stood from his bar stool.

Pepper and Tony looked up at him in concern. "Big guy, it's barely after four. Normally you hang out for at least another hour."

Bruce shrugged and waved a hand around his head. "Fall allergies are giving me a headache. I'm just going to go home."

"Feel better," Pepper said as she squeezed his arm.

"We still on for tomorrow?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, sure," Bruce answered. As he walked out into the parking lot, he wondered how many of his friends he could push away this school year.

* * *

><p>"Please tell me that's not a conspiracy wall," Gwen said Saturday night, and Peter immediately angled himself to stand in front of the refrigerator.<p>

In Gwen's defense, he'd called her that afternoon and invited her over for dinner, just the two of them, away from all the distractions in the world. But in his defense, Gwen'd showed up a half-hour early, keyed herself into his apartment (important side note: how amazing was it that his girlfriend had her own key to his apartment?), and snuck up on him.

She planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes.

"It's not what it looks like," Peter defended.

"You mean there's not a low-budget conspiracy wall on your fridge?"

Peter heaved a sigh. "Okay, it's slightly what it looks like," he admitted, "but in my defense—"

"Oh, stop acting like this is the first time I've caught you doing something ridiculous and let me see," Gwen cut him off, and before he could scowl at her, she nudged him out of the way. All things considered, he'd done pretty well for himself with Batman magnets, leopard print duct tape, and a ball of kitchen twine. He watched for a few seconds as Gwen tipped her head at the various notes and (hastily printed) yearbook pictures before he slid in to start explaining.

"First, we have Miss Romanoff and Bruce, who broke up but are keeping it all very quiet," he said, pointing to his notes by the fridge handle. "Darcy—she's here—is helping keep their business under wraps, but I have no idea why. Meanwhile, I am pretty sure Tony—" He gestured along a line of twine. "—is stirring the pot. He and Bruce are, like, platonic life partners or something, which I think is inspiring him to be a good, if meddlesome, bro."

"So, he's the Harry to Bruce's you," Gwen surmised.

"Only with more insanity and— Well, they're about equally rich, so just more insanity." She grinned a little at that, and Peter couldn't help smiling. "Over here, we have Steve and Bucky," he continued after a beat. "They're dating, have been since last year, but according to a bunch of people at Xavier's—"

Gwen wrinkled her nose. "The dive bar?"

"The site of payday happy hour, but yeah, the dive bar," he said, and she screwed up her face in mild distaste. He ignored it to point at Steve and Bucky's pictures. "According to the people I overheard, something's wrong in paradise because Steve's walking around like a little black rain cloud. Worse, nobody can get information out of Bucky's best friend Miss Romanoff—"

"Because of her secret break up?" Gwen guessed.

Peter grinned. "Right!"

She chuckled and shook her head, her face warm with amusement, and Peter almost steered her away from the fridge to kiss her when she pointed at the row of photos at the bottom of the arrangement. "Why is Aunt May on your conspiracy fridge?" she asked.

He frowned. "I'd rather call it a thought cloud." She cocked her head at him, and he sighed as he dug his fingers into his hair. "Aunt May, Jessica Drew, and the mystery man known as Barney," he said, "are all spending time together. Barton—the one with the messy hair, the balding one's his husband—freaked out when I told him and sort of ran away from me."

"Ran away," Gwen repeated skeptically.

Peter raised his hands. "God's honest truth," he replied, and crossed himself for good measure. She rolled her eyes. "I don't know if they're dating or just spending time together," he said after a beat, and he felt his own shoulders slump. "I don't know what they do together. I just know that something fishy's going on at Aunt May's now that I'm not living there, and I don't like it."

Gwen smiled softly and rested a hand on his shoulder. When he leaned into her touch, she rested her cheek on his upper arm, swaying with him. "Aunt May's been widowed a long time," she said quietly. "Maybe it's time she had something fun in her life."

Something twisted in his stomach at that, so he shrugged. "Maybe," he agreed, and smiled when Gwen kissed him on the cheek.

Later, after Gwen'd headed home for the night, Peter froze in the middle of the loading the dishwasher and stared helplessly at the row of pictures taped to the bottom of his fridge.

"Fun with who?" he asked exactly no one.

He threw out the conspiracy wall that night.

* * *

><p>Natasha walked in to James's classroom. The students were gone for the day, and he already had the morning problem on the board for tomorrow. She wondered how pissed James would be if she messed with it a little. She was pretty sure she could still remember how to forge his handwriting from doing his homework in college.<p>

"What are you doing here?" James asked as he walked into his room with an arm full of photocopies.

"Felt like going on a stroll." She caught James smiling at her, and she sent him a warning look. "What?"

James shrugged. "Just think it's cute how recess duty brings out your freckles at the beginning and end of the school year."

Natasha pulled a face and rubbed at her nose. She didn't even know her face was capable of freckles until she moved to America. James always found it hilarious that the oh-so-serious Soviet had such a happy facial feature. "When are you going to start telling people about the engagement?"

James snorted. "You do an amazing impression of Steve."

"I haven't quite mastered the puppy dog eyes."

James shook his head. "No one can beat him in that arena."

"That's not an answer to the question."

James slumped into the seat behind his deck and ran his fingers through his hair. "It's not their business."

"Doesn't mean they're not talking about it right now."

"What do you mean?" James asked.

Natasha perched herself on a student's desk. "Jessica Drew asked me if I'd seen you naked."

"You didn't tell her about that, did you?"

"Which time?" Natasha asked and then smiled as James cringed. They both knew he had a habit of stripping when he got drunk. "Jess wanted to know if your dick was capable of some magic spell that made Steve feel amazing, but now its magic is wearing off and Steve is fighting some kind of Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing because he goes from looking like he's about to burst with excitement to looking like a kicked puppy."

James looked at her horrified. "I don't even know what to do with that statement."

"I'm not sure what anyone would do with that statement," Natasha muttered.

"I just don't want everyone talking about us," James whined.

"You get used to it," Natasha groused.

"Really?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Tasha," James apologized quietly.

She shrugged. "I'll adjust."

"You won't have to if Darcy's in the room." Natasha gave him a questioning look, and he continued to explain. "It's happened to me three times this week. I'm trying to make copies or getting coffee, someone starts talking shit about you and Bruce, and before I can even turn around to tell them off, Darcy's lecturing them about gossiping and shutting them right up."

"I would've thought she would've jumped right in."

"Dunno."

"Hmm," Natasha hummed. "You should still start telling people."

"You should still agree to be my best man," James countered.

"This again?"

He grinned brightly. "This again forever and ever until you tell me yes."

Natasha shook her head and walked out of the room.

Her feet, on their own accord, led her down the steps to the front office. She noticed she took the long loop around past Steve's art room and the cafeteria in order to avoid walking past Bruce's classroom. She'd been doing it often since the school year'd started.

When she walked into the office, Darcy was on the phone, politely answering what sounded like the same three questions over and over again. When she noticed Natasha walking toward her, the office manager mimicked hanging herself with a noose.

Natasha perched herself on the counter that served as Darcy's massive desk while waiting for the other woman to get off the phone. Once she'd finished her conversation, she muttered a string of swears under her breath before looking at Natasha. "What can I do you for?"

"Why are you shutting down conversations about me and Bruce?" Natasha asked.

"Because my livelihood depends on it," Darcy answered. Natasha waited until more words tumbled out of the young woman's mouth. It didn't take long. "I'm getting blackmailed. And that's fine, because your relationship isn't anyone else's business, which is the whole reason I'm being blackmailed. You aren't mad, are you? I didn't think you would be, but you could also kill me with a stiletto heel."

"Not mad," Natasha reassured. "Just… confused."

"Then maybe you should have an actual conversation with Banner," Darcy replied. Her eyes bugged a second later as she probably realized she said the words out loud instead of just thinking them.

"You're right," Natasha said, and Darcy visibly relaxed in her chair. "He hasn't left for the day, has he?"

"Nope."

"Okay," Natasha said as she slid off the counter. "And Darcy? Thank you."

She waved Natasha off and pretended to jump into something else to avoid any more sentimentality, which was something Natasha could appreciate.

When Natasha got to Bruce's classroom, she knocked on the door.

"Peter, I'm sure your lesson plans for tomorrow are fine," Bruce said without looking up from where he was reorganizing a bookshelf. "We've gone over them five times now."

"That needy already?" Natasha asked. She didn't know whether to smile or feel guilty at the way Bruce jumped at the sound of her voice. She leaned out into the hallway to make sure there weren't any prying eyes before shutting the door. "You put Darcy on rumor patrol?"

Bruce nodded. "I had a convenient piece of information that she didn't want to get out: she's dating Thor's brother."

Natasha snorted. "Thor Odinson—wedding planner. I'd want to keep that a secret, too."

"That's only if Alva doesn't beat Thor to the job."

They shared a small laugh and then fell quiet again, Bruce shuffling slightly on his feet. "Thank you," Natasha said. "That was a kind thing for you to do after I—"

"You weren't the only one at fault," Bruce said. "The last thing I'd ever want to do is hurt you. I just knew that we couldn't—"

"Yeah," Natasha said to cut him off. She turned towards the door, but paused with her hand on the knob. "I never wanted to hurt you either," she said quietly. "I hope you know that." She left him alone after that, not quite willing to hear whatever he would've said in response.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTES: **First, apologies for the delay. This weekend was a rough one for me (Sara), and you didn't want me writing words in that kind of head space.

For you Americans, hope you're having a fantastic Thanksgiving! For the non-Americans, one more day till the weekend!

Regardless of where you live, Kate and I are extremely grateful for each and everyone of you.

* * *

><p>"Mister Rogers?" asked a small voice, and Steve glanced up to find Luci Delgado standing in front of him.<p>

Luci Delgado was one of his first graders, a girl with more curiosity than six Alva Odinsons and long pigtail braids that the boys in her class desperately wanted to tug. Better still, Luci possessed a mean right hook that she used on any boy who dared touch those braids without her permission. "Not without asking," she'd sneered at a half-dozen sticky-fingered six-year-olds, and now, they all cowered when she strode down the hallway.

Steve—still hovering over the table where Jayden and Paul had started a war with their watercolors—smiled down at her. "Is your table done painting the grass and the sky already?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, but I had a question."

"An art question?"

"A private question." She pronounced the word very carefully, like she expected one of the syllables to escape. Steve felt his smile falter. "Can I ask it not by everybody else?"

"Sure," he agreed. He quickly redirected the boys to work on their group landscape one more time before he steered Luci over to his desk. His head swam with a thousand awful possibilities: sick or dying relatives, horrible personal tragedies, problems with classmates. Not many students trusted Steve as a confidant, but he'd discovered early on that those who picked him brought the hardest stories along with them. He sat Luci down in his desk chair, her sneakers dangling off the floor, and then crouched down in front of her. "Okay," he said gently, "I'm ready for your question."

Luci looked at her hands in her lap. "Promise I won't get in trouble for asking?"

Steve offered up his most reassuring smile. "Of course not. Anything you say is just between you and me, okay?"

She nodded, her little face steeling with something like resolve. She drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and then asked, "Why are you sad?"

The question almost literally knocked Steve off balance, but he caught himself on the corner of his desk. He blinked at Luci and her very serious expression. "You think I'm sad?"

"No, I know you're sad," she corrected, her arms crossing over her chest. "My mom says that when you're sad, you should tell people so they can help fix what's making you feel bad. And 'cause you're always sad, I asked."

Steve frowned slightly. "I'm always sad?"

Luci nodded. "Last year, when I was in kindergarten, you used to look out the door and smile and get all silly. Now, you look out the door and your face goes like this." She stuck out her lower lip and flashed Steve puppy-dog eyes, and Steve barely stifled a laugh. "It's sad."

"That is a pretty sad look, yes," Steve admitted, still smiling. Luci raised her eyebrows expectantly, still just as curious as when she'd interrupted him with the boys, and Steve rubbed his neck as he glanced back out across the classroom. Next week, his students would cut out a variety of tissue paper buildings, trees, and clouds to add to their landscapes and hang them out in the hallway for the world to see. Today, they were just paint-stained first graders.

Finally, Steve sighed. "I'm not really sad," he said. Luci scowled at him, her mouth popping open to argue, and he raised a hand. "I promise, I'm notsad. I just . . . Well, let me ask you this. Has anybody ever asked you to keep a secret?"

She grinned. "I'm the best secret keeper," she confided.

Steve chuckled. "I believe it. And is it easy to keep secrets?"

Luci screwed her face up in thought. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no."

"Exactly." She wrinkled her nose, and Steve gently touched her arm. "Somebody I love very much asked me to keep a secret. It's a hard secret to keep. And sometimes, it pops back into my head, and I get stuck thinking about it. But that doesn't mean I'm sad."

She peered at him, her lips pursed into a tight line as she studied his face. "Is it a sad secret?" she asked.

Steve laughed and quickly shook his head. "It's a fantastic secret," he promised. "I just can't tell it to anybody yet."

Luci's face immediately brightened. "Okay!" she said cheerfully. She slid off his chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Good talk."

He couldn't hold back a second laugh. "'Good talk?'" he repeated.

She shrugged. "It's what my mom always says," she replied, and then ran off to rejoin her table.

The first graders eventually left, but even after that and bus duty, Steve lingered in his classroom. He tried to convince himself he was monitoring the paintings so he could roll them up and add them to the pile of other first-grade artwork, but his mind drifted back to Luci more than once. He wondered whether he actually did look sad when he thought about his "fantastic secret" and how much his other students picked up on that.

Worse, he worried how much Bucky picked up on that.

He pushed the thought from his mind as he started collecting the paintings and setting up the tables for the fifth graders' art history game in the morning. He was so busy arranging his artwork bingo cards that he missed the door opening until hands touched his waist and he nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Dammit, Buck," he muttered, and he pushed Bucky's hands away when the jerk started laughing. Undeterred, Bucky waited until he twisted around to hook his fingers in Steve's waistband. "You're lucky I wasn't holding a bottle of paint or something."

Bucky shrugged. "You get paint on you, I get to help clean up."

"Your version of 'cleaning up' usually leaves us messier," Steve reminded him.

Bucky grinned. "You weren't complaining in the shower this morning," he teased. Steve rolled his eyes, but heat still flooded his belly. "Besides," Bucky continued, "I wanted to see if you're ready to get out of here."

"Almost, yeah." Bucky nodded at that and started to slip away, but Steve caught him by the elbow and held him there. Bucky's wide-eyed look—soft but confused—almost stole Steve's breath right out of his chest. He smiled. "You know I'm happy, right?" he asked after a beat. "Like, I'm still gonna ask almost every night whether you're ready to share all this—"

"Part of your 'is Natasha Romanoff still ready to burn the world down?' line of questioning, probably," Bucky cut in.

Steve snorted half a laugh. "I'm still gonna ask," he said again, "but I just— I need to make sure you know I'm happy. And ready to drive everybody nuts with just how much they hate our sappy crap, but on your schedule."

Bucky grinned at him. "They don't just hate our sappy crap, they loathe it," he corrected, and Steve shook his head. At least, until Bucky reached up and touched his chin. "Steve," he said, voice low and gentle, "I trust you to tell me if you're not happy, or to say you're sick of waiting for me to stop waiting for Nat. Hell, out of the two of us, you're the guy who always finds his words first. I don't think I could stop you if I wanted to."

Steve glanced at the floor for a second, but he also smiled. "You did do a lot more 'showing' than 'telling' when you proposed," he pointed out.

Bucky shoved his hip. "And just for that, I'm not helping you set up bingo," he countered, but that hardly stopped Steve from drawing him in for a kiss.

* * *

><p>"Which kid is being a shit this time?" Natasha asked before sinking into the chair across from Pepper's desk.<p>

The guidance counselor steeled herself internally. She'd put a meeting down on Natasha's Outlook calendar, but she hadn't added a description for which student they'd be discussing.

Because they weren't going to talk about a student.

"I've sent you a couple of texts," Pepper started.

Natasha shifted in her seat. "Yeah, sorry, I've just been busy getting settled back into my place and getting the school year started."

Pepper flashed her a small, polite grin. "Natasha, I'm not Tony. I know it takes two people for a relationship to... do anything . I just want to help."

Pepper watched as Natasha tried to hide the series of emotions that crossed her face. Sadness flashed across her face for a second, as well as a few others, but the dominant expression seemed to be skepticism. "Help how?" she asked.

"First, anything you say to me will be kept confidential," Pepper explained. "Especially from my husband. I know Bruce is his best friend, but I'm willing to talk to either one of you, or both if I need to mediate between you two, and no one else will know about it. Consider me Switzerland."

"Okay," Natasha responded, clearly still unconvinced. "So I'm just supposed to spill my guts to you or something?"

"If you want," Pepper said. "Talking is always good. But I have a certification that lets me help people heal without a lot of talking, if you prefer that. Or there's always boozy mani-pedi time."

Natasha looked around the office for a minute, weighing her options. Pepper just leaned back in her seat and waited patiently. "While the last option sounds easier," Natasha said, "I think booze hasn't helped, even if my nails need touched up."

"How much have you been drinking?" Pepper gently prodded.

The other woman shrugged. "I'm not driving when I do it, and I'm not showing up to work drunk."

"Sounds like there's a 'but' at the end of that."

Natasha picked at her nails. "It's not enough to make me forget or numb anything, but I know I can't have more or else I will be showing up here hungover, and I'm not willing to give some people around here that satisfaction. Not Bruce," she corrected hurriedly. "I know if he knew I was doing that-"

"It would tear him apart even more than he already is," Pepper finished for her . "As well as the rest of your friends here." They sat in silence for a moment before Pepper started placing art supplies between them. There was a giant white sheet of paper for each, as well as magazines that had already had things cut out of them, paints, markers, and glitter. "I want you to put whatever you consider to be beautiful on this paper," Pepper instructed, while gesturing to the empty canvas. "It can be words, pictures, sketches, whatever. Make the most beautiful thing you can think of. Some place where you wish you could curl up and stay in forever."

Natasha looked unsure about things, like most of Pepper's students did when she gave that direction. Setting an example, Pepper picked up blue paint and began coloring in a pale sky on her giant sheet of white paper. They worked in silence for a little over ten minutes, Pepper focusing on recreating the landscape of her home state of Virginia and the farm where she grew up. She cut out words and images from the magazine that fit the image she was creating, and kept working until she sensed Natasha was done.

When she looked over at what the gym teacher had created, her heart twisted. Natasha had put together a picture that depicted a room with books everywhere, and even featured a pair of reading glasses on an end table. She'd also found a picture in a magazine of a green afghan that looked very much like the one Bruce kept in his study.

Pepper swapped the pieces of paper so that she had Natasha's. "With your permission, and you're allowed to say no, I'd like to destroy this. You have my permission to destroy my work."

Natasha's eyes dropped to the art she'd made, and her lips pursed for a second. "Yeah, okay."

Again, Pepper was the first to make a move. She took a bottle of black tempera paint, drizzled it all over Natasha's creation, and folded the image in half to smear the paint around like flattening out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When Pepper unfolded it, the cozy image was drowned in blackness. Her next step was to start shredding the page into strips before tearing the pieces even more until it resembled large, black confetti.

Natasha followed her lead, picked up a red marker, and furiously scribbled over Pepper's painting. Once that was done, the gym teacher balled up the sheet of paper before she, too, began to tear it into pieces.

Once they were each done massacring the other's work, Pepper returned the paper scraps to their original creators. "And now, we take what's left and make something new," she instructed.

Natasha eyed her pile of sodden, black paper for a second before shaking her head. "How am I supposed to make something out of this?"

Pepper shrugged and smiled what Tony referred to as her "infuriatingly know-it-all smirk". "I'm sure you can figure something out." She, herself, began picking up her shredded page and began twisting the pieces so that they began to look like petals of a flower, the scribbled red marks giving a lovely appearance. By the time Pepper was done, her side of the desk was littered with a handful of small, red blossoms.

Natasha, on the other hand, was muttering Russian words under her breath, and it took Pepper a moment to realize what she was creating. A few minutes later, Natasha gently sat her finished work down on Pepper's desk: a small, black spider. There was even a small, proud smile on the woman's face for what she'd accomplished.

"And now," Pepper said, "I would normally start talking about how you created something great, endured having it destroyed, and proceeded to make something you never even thought you could when you first walked in here. But suffice it to say, I'm tired of seeing my friend stuck looking at ruins." Natasha's green eyes flickered up to meet Pepper's, and she could see the question in them. "And I'm not just talking about Bruce. You're my friend, too. It's time to start building something out of the mess. And I don't care what that is or what it looks like, as long as you're not harming yourself, obviously. But, please—enough with the being stuck with broken pieces all around you."

* * *

><p>Chaos, Phil decided, was the word of the day. Add in a couple adjectives, and you could even call it massive, unadulterated chaos.<p>

And all because of a scavenger hunt.

Phil loved his beginning-of-the-year scavenger hunts, ones that reinforced good library habits while also introducing the students to new, more advanced skills. First and second graders focused mostly on how to alphabetize or where to find certain resources, and third and fourth graders learned various aspects of the Dewey Decimal system. But the fifth graders, in the crowning glory of his scavenger hunt scheme, put all of these skills together in a paired race to find at least six different resources (not all of them books) for a hypothetical report topic.

Usually, the hunts happened on each class's second library visit of the year, but thanks to meetings, a late shipment of new children's picture books, and a catastrophic card catalogue crash (proving once again that not everything needed to be digitized and upgraded, Tony), Phil'd needed to wait several weeks to bring out the big guns.

Only this time, those "several weeks" translated to "the first truly crazed Friday morning of the school year." He blamed the rain, mostly. The rain, the gray-skied misery, the giant puddle on the kickball field and under the swings that prevented students from running off their energy before school), and also—

"I don't think so," he said, and firmly pried Anton's hormone-riddled hands away from the giant anatomy book he'd pulled off the nearest reference shelf. Anton blushed beet red, and with good reason: he and his partner Ricky had been studying the pages on female and male reproductive organs very closely.

Ricky scowled. "But our topic is—"

"The red-tailed hawk," Phil informed him. Both boys stared up at him, and he resisted his urge to roll his eyes as he gestured toward their assignment paper. "I can read it from here."

"But it's upside down," Ricky pointed out. Phil raised an eyebrow. "People can't read upside down."

"Maybe not, but they sure can throw you in detention for mouthing off instead of getting back on track," Clint suddenly said. Both boys jerked to attention as their teacher approached, his hands crossed over his chest. "You got another excuse waiting for Mister Coulson?" he asked. They shook their heads in unison. "Good. Now go do your assignment."

The boys grumbled some, but they also darted off, glancing over their shoulders two or three times to make sure Clint didn't tail them. Phil sighed as he slid the book back into place. "I admire your restraint in not making a 'shake your tail feather' joke," he said under his breath.

Clint grinned. "That mean you're gonna show me your appreciation when we're—" he started to ask, but a crash from the other end of the library cut him off. Over in the stacks devoted to the 700s (arts and recreation), Peter Norman was frantically trying to shove an entire shelf's worth of books back into their rightful places.

Clint heaved a sigh. "Hold that thought?"

"He's all yours," Phil said, and he waved his husband away before heading over to break up a gaggle of girls who were trying to access Facebook on one of the card catalogue computers.

By the time the fifth-graders left, their pissed-off teacher taking up the rear (and, as a small favor from the universe, providing Phil a wonderful view), Phil'd course-corrected another dozen children from such quality activities as looking up and underlining swear words in the dictionary, purposely hiding resources from other groups, ripping an article on One Direction out of a recent magazine, and leaving piles of books strewn around his library. Twice, Clint'd finished redirecting one of his hellions only to sign sorry from across the room.

The honeymoon period is clearly over, Phil'd signed back, and Clint'd grinned at him.

The rest of day involved vomit, a torn dust jacket (and hysterical, guilty tears), two loud fights between fourth-grade scavenger hunt partners—and that was all before lunch.

At one point during the second-grade hunt—after an argument about the alphabet ended in more tears—Jessica Drew walked over to rest her elbow on Phil's shoulder. "Should I ask?"

"Do I look that bad?" he asked, and sighed when she shrugged. "In that case, no. Don't ask."

"Okay then."

Really, the best part of Phil's day was when it finally ended and Clint met him in the library doorway armed with a steaming cup of fresh coffee.

"Got a fifth-grade team meeting to get to," he said, pushing the cup into Phil's hand, "but I want you to know I'm sorry."

Phil shrugged. "It's not your fault the day unraveled like a cheap sweater."

Clint grinned. "You're such a fucking dork," he declared, but he kissed Phil soft and sweet while Phil rolled his eyes.

That night, after dinner and a greater-than-average amount of shitty television, Clint walked up to Phil while he rinsed the dinner dishes and pressed his forehead to the back of Phil's shoulder. Phil smiled and let him linger—at least, until Clint commented, "After today, I'm pretty glad we don't have one."

Phil stilled before twisting just far enough to glimpse his husband's messy hair. "A child or a library?"

"Well, since your comic collection's pretty much the second one . . . " Clint replied, but he laughed when Phil smacked him with the dish towel before he used it to reel Phil in for another, much longer kiss.

* * *

><p>Darcy flopped onto Loki's mattress—what little space wasn't covered with the abysmal persuasive papers he was grading—and let out a low whine. "Not that I don't mind you moaning into my pillow," Loki stated without looking up from the latest travesty of the English language, "but what, pray tell, is the problem today?"<p>

She looked up at him, blew hair out of her face, and said, "'Pray tell? ' Seriously?"

"I'm preparing myself for my next unit, which happens to be about Shakespeare. Not that any of these Neanderthals will appreciate it."

"You're such a dweeb."

"And yet you're in my bed."

"Technically, Mister English-Language-Know-It-All," Darcy argued as she propped herself up on her elbow, "I'm on it."

"For now," Loki returned with a smirk . Hastily, he put the papers in semi-organized heaps and tossed them onto the floor. "And you didn't answer my question."

Darcy groaned again and shoved her face back into the pillow. Loki simply waited for the latest round of theatrics to be over with so she would get to the point. He enjoyed Darcy immensely, but still was unaccustomed to being around a woman who was so boisterous and theatrical.

But if anyone asked, he'd prefer you used the adjectives energetic and lively. Or really, anything else that didn't fall into the pejorative category.

She was right. He did sound like an English-Language-Know-It-All.

"We have to do something about the kids," Darcy exclaimed. "As if it wasn't bad enough with just George asking about ice cream and sprinkles whenever he sees me, Alva now has her little gal pals ganging up on me. Pretty sure half of them expect a wedding invite."

"They're five-year-old girls," Loki attempted to reason. "Are you really this concerned about them?"

"You know nothing, Jon Snow ," Darcy returned. "What are we going to do?"

Unlike Darcy, Loki had no hang ups about announcing their relationship to the world. He'd only spent the summer sowing lies because it's what she wanted to do, and he wanted her to remain his… He'd say girlfriend, but any use of titles beyond the level of "buds" typically caused her eyes to bug.

"Remind me again about the downside of letting people know about us?" Loki asked.

He listened to her usual arguments: Thor flipping out, the nephews and niece clobbering them with questions about weddings and babies, how it would give her mother too much smug satisfaction, etc. "Don't you want to keep it a secret?" she questioned at the end of her rant.

"No." The word slipped out of him before he could reign it in . Every other time, he'd say the answer in his mind and then lie to keep her pleased. He knew it wasn't the best basis for a relationship, but it worked for them. At least on surface levels.

"What?"

Loki sighed. "I don't want to keep it a secret. Why would I? There's not a man in the world, not mention a few ladies, who wouldn't be extremely jealous of me ."

"So this is all about you?" Darcy fired back. He knew from her tone of voice he needed to defuse the situation, and quickly.

"That's not what I meant," he responded. "If everyone already knows or has suspicions, then what's the point of carrying on this charade?"

"It's not any of their business," Darcy hissed.

"I never stated that it was or it would be," he said gently. "But if everyone already—"

"I gotta go," she huffed as she climbed off his bed.

"You just got here."

"Yeah, well, now I'm leaving," she told him without turning around before stomping out of his apartment.

Loki let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. His father's voice sounded in his head, reminding him that the key to a happy life was a happy wife. And while they certainly weren't at that level of relationship yet, he hated admitting when his father was right.

* * *

><p>"And then," Carol continued, waving her wine glass idly, "I had to listen to an ode to his fucking tongue."<p>

James Rhodes's laugh always reminded Carol of a caramel latte; warm and sweet, it pooled in her belly and its heat radiated outward. At least, those things were true when he wasn't laughing at her expense. When he was—

"Hey!" he protested when she twisted to kick the side of his leg, and again when she crossed her ankles over his shins. They'd grabbed greasy Chinese takeout on their way back to James's to watch a truly shameful Saturday night baseball game on some cable sports network, and now, game over, they were lounging on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table. Or, rather, with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Carol's, on the other hand—

"You have the boniest heels on the planet, Danvers," he groused as he readjusted his legs.

She smirked and stretched further out. "You don't complain about my heels when they're digging into your back."

"Yeah, because you're that flex—" he started, but the word transformed into a whole different one (still starting with F) when she dug one of those bony heels into the side of his leg. "You know what? I'm just gonna concede that you're a sex goddess and save myself the trouble."

Carol raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."

"But not to Barney Barton's magic tongue," James retorted, and she almost choked on her drink. This time, she smacked him with a pillow while he laughed. "I don't know what your problem with the whole Barney thing is," he said once he'd wrestled the pillow out of her grip. "She's happy."

"It's disgusting."

"And yet, she's happy about it." Carol huffed a breath at him, and he raised his hands. "I'm not saying a convicted felon's her best choice for a long-term boyfriend, or that she should be going on sexcapades while he's living with one of your co-workers—"

"Ex-coworker," she corrected.

"Funny how that's no less disturbing for everybody involved." She rolled her eyes, but he just shrugged. "Maybe this isn't her best decision," he pressed, "but from what you've told me about her, it's not her worst. Letting it play out might not be so bad."

"Yeah, but you're not living 'The Days of our Elementary School Lives,'" she complained.

He snorted into his beer. "That bad?"

"Are you kidding? Judge Judy and Jerry Springer could have a baby together and it'd still be less dramatic than what's happening in that building." James laughed again, and Carol thumped her head against the back of his couch. After a beat, she sighed. "It's not really Jessica."

"No, really?"

She shot him a dirty look, but he just smiled innocently and sipped his beer. "Nobody's saying it with words like the adults they pretend to be, but it's pretty clear Romanoff and Banner broke up. And all of that has—"

"Sent Tony into a crazy tailspin?" James asked. "'Cause if he sends me one more text asking how you're doing, I won't be accountable for my actions."

She laughed. "What, you don't like that your bestie's checking up on us?"

"I don't like that he's hovering like some dime-store yenta, no. Couple more days of this and I'm investing in a Pepper intervention."

Carol shrugged. "Could just tell him we're on a break."

"And die by his hand?" He shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Worth a shot," she replied, and he rolled his eyes at her as he tried to hide his smile. She leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. "So, there'sthat," she explained, "plus Darcy running around shutting people up every time it comes up in conversation, plus Rogers and Barnes acting as squirrelly as two kids who just stole the last cookie out of the jar." She closed her eyes. "I already need a break, and we're barely into the school year."

"Bodes real well for the next couple months," James intoned, and Carol groaned. For a few minutes, they lingered silently, her feet propped up on his legs and her face still trained toward the ceiling. Then, he touched her knee. "I could help, you know."

She twisted toward him for the express purpose of raising her eyebrows. "You didn't miss the earlier part of the conversation where I warned you about how the Red Seas are flooding, did you?"

"No, but I really hate that that's the euphemism you and Jessica chose," he returned with a scowl, and she grinned. His thumb traced funny little patterns across her jeans. "The social work conference I go to every October is down in Austin this year. Just a week of barbeque, country music, and bad hipster facial hair as far as the eye can see."

Carol ignored the flutter in her gut to snort at him. "You trying to make me jealous?"

"No, I'm trying to invite you." He said it easily, his voice as nonchalant and matter-of-fact as usual. Carol finished her wine in one huge gulp. "It's the same week as your fall break," he said after a couple seconds. "You might be bored during the days, but I figure at night, we can go out to eat, mock Texas sports fans, whatever you wanna do." He shrugged. "Might be fun."

Carol stared down at her empty glass. "James . . . "

"I'm not asking you to pressure you into anything," he added once her voice faltered a little, and she nodded unevenly. "You don't want to come, you don't have to. But this summer was good. We've been doing good. And I knew I'd regret it if I didn't ask."

She glanced over at him. "And if I need some time to think about it?" she asked.

He grinned. "Why do you think I asked you this far in advance?"

She reached out to smack him a little at that, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her toward him, instead. She swung her legs off his and ended up pressing against him, his grip as warm and welcome as his laugh. "Let me think about it, okay?" she asked, looking up at him. "Not because I don't want to, but because I live in a soap opera and want to make sure I can leave it in good conscience."

"Long as you don't accidentally screw my evil twin Reynaldo, we're golden," he replied, and she laughed.

* * *

><p>Darcy paced along the fence line of her backyard. She didn't want to know how long she'd been out here. Certainly not enough for her mother's foul mood to improve, not that Darcy's mood was any better.<p>

She could take out her cell phone and look at the time, but that would probably mean seeing another string of texts from Loki. Darcy was sure they'd all be innocuous, but despite the lack of actual blood relations, Loki could be as subtle as Thor when his emotions were too heavily in play. Which was to say that even though he'd be trying to play it cool, no one sent five texts in a row about pizza toppings . I mean, if you were Darcy? Sure. But the man who could quote Nordic folklore in its original ancient tongue? Not so much.

Darcy heard a door slam and looked over to see Jane trudging out of her house, coffee mug in hand. She paced the deck a moment before spotting Darcy in the darkness. Busted, Darcy waved her fingers at her neighbor.

"Why are you out here?" Jane questioned when she got closer.

"I needed to think," Darcy answered with a shrug. She'd needed to do a lot of thinking, but still had yet to get her mind to shut up for half a second so an actual thought could pass through. That's why she'd left Loki's place in a hurry, and why she'd then spent the next two hours driving laps around the city's interstate bypass.

"About whether or not to come clean about you and Loki?" Jane asked with an arched eyebrow .

Darcy grit her teeth in frustration. She knew it was only a matter of time before her neighbors found out. She just wanted more time. "Alva spill the beans?"

"Not directly. More so with how she took a Sharpie to Ken's plastic hair, and renamed her Skipper doll after herself. She then proceeded to have wedding after wedding with you and Loki and your Barbie franchise stand-ins."

Darcy couldn't help but smile a little at that little revelation, but then dread and fear pooled in her belly once more. "Thor knows?"

"Yeah," Jane answered. "Not that Loki would own up to it when he was over this morning for an impromptu visit. Said he wanted to bring the kids donuts for breakfast, but the way he kept looking over at your house made it clear he was lying a little." Jane took another sip from her mug while eyeing Darcy in that stupid super smart scientist way , the kind that told you that if she could break down the secrets of the universe, Darcy's should be cake to unravel. "What's your hang up?"

Darcy felt her chest squeeze and her lungs threaten to stop working all together. She wanted to run away and hide, but that was apparently no longer a viable option. "I'm going to fuck this up," she admitted, the words tumbling out of her. "You know me, there's no other option. Hell, I probably already have."

"Of course you're going to fuck up, Darcy," Jane said like it was an obvious constant of the galaxy. Which, to be fair, it probably was, but hearing the words come out of her friend's mouth gutted her. "I mean, you're human," Jane continued. "Making messes of things is what humans do best. It's a relationship, of course you're going to screw up."

"Yeah, I guess," Darcy answered unconvincingly.

Jane just sighed and shook her head. "Do you know why I'm out here?"

"To watch some meteor shower only nerds care about?"

"No," Jane answered with sarcasm heavy in her voice. "Besides, there's too much cloud cover for that," she muttered. "I'm out here because I couldn't get anything right at work. And instead of leaving it behind me when I left the planetarium, I came home and took it out on the kids and Thor. So now I've been banished to the backyard to calm down before I'm allowed back into my house. But at least I managed to spike my coffee on the way out," Jane added before offering the mug to Darcy.

She took it and sipped, the bitterness of the coffee and the strength of the booze causing her to cough. "You're not a bad mom and wife," Darcy said to reassure her friend.

"I am tonight," Jane admitted. "Because I'm human, and I fuck up when it comes to relationships. But you know what I'm not going to do?"

"Run away and hide?" Darcy asked meekly.

"Exactly. I'm going to get my shit together, go back into my house, kiss my kids good night, apologize to my husband—probably in some form of sex. I mean I'll probably still lay awake in bed wondering how much money I need to put away for my kids' therapy sessions, but I'm not going to run away." Before Darcy could open her mouth to offer another mandatory sentimentality about the situation, Jane cut her off with a stare. "I will be the first and loudest to admit that I'm not mother material, but I still made the little people in my house and it's my job to take care of them. And I'll be damned if something stops me from doing it. Yes, I'm going to mess up. Yes, there will be nights where everyone is in tears, but they're my kids. And no one else gets to be their mom but me."

The tightness in Darcy's chest barely ebbed away as she thought about what Jane said . "Exactly what is the coffee to booze ration in that mug?" she asked to deflect any hint of emotion. Jane's only response was to frown down into her cup. Before either of them could say anything, the back door to the Odinson house swung open, and Thor's broad silhouette filled the frame.

"That's my cue," Jane said. "You're going to mess up, but you have to make sure whatever you screwing up is also worth fixing. And if it is, don't ever let it go."


	4. Chapter 4

"The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and we are going for a drive," Tony announced on Bruce's doorstep Sunday afternoon, his eyes obscured by enormous sunglasses.

Bruce rubbed his eyes. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked.

"Time for a drive. The open road in front of us, the wind in our hair, an iced hazelnut latte in your hand." Bruce frowned at him, but Tony just waved a hand. "Go on, get dressed. I'll wait."

Bruce sighed but trudged inside to turn off the documentary he'd been dozing in front of (as much as he tried, he really wasn't sleeping that well lately) and throw on clean clothes. When he stepped back into the sun, he discovered that Tony was leaning up against the side of an unfamiliar car and talking to—

"Did you just invite me to be a third wheel?"

Tony and Pepper's conversation stopped abruptly, but only because Tony whirled around and spread out his arms. "You're only a third wheel in the sense that you're part of a bicycle that happens to have three wheels. Naturally. Like a tricycle. Or one of those old-timey bikes with one big wheel and—"

"Only one small wheel?" Pepper asked. Tony's grin immediately faltered, and she smiled as she shook her head. "Tony made me promise to sit in the back."

"Because this is a boy's day out and you're only here as the eye candy," Tony said. It sounded mostly like the continuation of an earlier conversation, but Pepper rolled her eyes as she and her coffee slid obligingly into the back seat. "She'll also charm random gas station attendants. Did it on the way here. Frustrating, yet oddly sexy."

Pepper sighed. "Remind me why I married you."

"Because you thought you had eighteen years of Stark-spawn ahead of you," Tony fired back. She pulled a face, but he ignored it as he gestured to the passenger side. "Hop in, loser, we're going driving."

Bruce rolled his lips together. "Did you really rent a four-seat convertible just to take me and your wife driving?" he asked.

"No, I rented a four-seat convertible because my two-seater's in the shop and because I needed to take my best friend and my wife driving." Tony shook his head. "It's like you don't even listen to me anymore."

"That would mean he listened to you in the first place," Pepper replied with a little shrug, and Bruce pretended to smile as he climbed into the car.

* * *

><p>"It's not like I'm not ready for it," Jasper said a few nights later, after Tony'd dragged him into Bruce's classroom at the end of the day and announced all three of them were going out for Mexican. "Sure, I maybe talk a good game about being casual and taking it slow. But deep down, I'm ready for more." He sighed and reached for his beer. "I mean, is this the face of man who's not ready for commitment?"<p>

Tony snorted. "To be fair, it's mostly the face of a guy who needs to give up on facial hair before he looks like a dime-store replacement of yours truly." Jasper glared, and Tony shrugged. "Bruce, weigh in on this. How much does the new goatee look like he's practicing for his Stark Halloween costume?"

"Scariest costume on the damn planet," Jasper muttered.

"Scariest because of its untamed sexiness, maybe," Tony retorted, and Bruce rolled his eyes at both of them. Tony grinned as he clapped Bruce on the shoulder—apparently a reward for responding at all. "You want commitment, you tell her you want commitment," he continued, waving a hand. "Women like a man who can be straightforward about that kind of thing."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "This from you?"

"This from the happily married man at the table full of bachelors, yes."

Tony tried to punctuate his point by stealing the last of Bruce's nachos, but Bruce slid the plate out of the way. Tony huffed while Jasper continued, "It's just hard, you know? She's all 'once bitten, twice shy' about the divorce, and fuck if I know how to fix that. But I don't want to be that guy who waits forever and then watches her walk because he's waited too long." He sighed. "Shit, listen to me. I sound like a sap."

"You sound like a guy who wants his girlfriend to stick around," Tony replied, leaning on the table. "Nothing wrong with that. Right, Bruce? Tell Sitwell there's nothing wrong with wanting his girlfriend to stick around."

Bruce glanced down at his nachos. "Right," he echoed.

* * *

><p>Carol slid into the booth at the Mexican restaurant with a hefty sigh. "I hate life," she announced, and Jess had the nerve to smirk.<p>

"I didn't know what you wanted so I didn't order anything," she said as she sipped what Carol doubted would be her only margarita.

"One of those," Carol told her, "but laced with Midol."

Jess snorted. "This place has enough legal trouble with its immigrant workers. I don't think they'll give you a drugged beverage. Cramps still that bad?"

"I don't understand the point of having a uterus. I think you should get to check a box when you're ten swearing you'll never conceive and then you won't ever have to deal with this shit."

Jess arched an eyebrow at her. "You sure about that? Seems like you and Señor Chocolicious are getting pretty cozy again."

"Señor Chocolicious?" Carol questioned.

Jess shrugged. "I went with the ambiance."

"Whatever," Carol sighed. The waiter came by to take their order of another round of margaritas and plates upon plates of tacos. "But speaking of getting cozy, he asked me to go on a road trip with him."

"Where?"

"Austin, Texas," Carol answered.

Jess nodded approvingly. "If you have to go somewhere in Texas, that's definitely the most survivable city if you're not from the Bible Belt. When's the trip?"

"Over our fall break."

"Let me get this straight," Jess started, and Carol immediately recognized her you're mistaken tone of voice. "Your hunk of a…whatever title you aren't afraid of using is offering to take you on a trip where you won't have to pay for a hotel. You'll get away from here on a few days instead of holing up with your cat, being pathetic—

"Hey!"

"You should totally do it," Jess told her. "And it's also really stupid that you're looking for validation in someone who can't do this kind of thing with the guy she's banging without a parole violation landing on the vacation itinerary."

"You're the one who's made the choice to shack up with a felon," Carol pointed out.

Jess smirked around her margarita straw. "At least he's willing to enter the danger zone during monthly maintenance."

"Gross," Carol replied.

Jess waved her off. "You put down a towel, no big deal. I swear it will help with your cramps." Carol cringed and shook her head. "Hygienic freak," Jess muttered.

"I know you meant that as an insult, but I really don't see it that way."

"So are you going to go knock boots in boot country?" Jess asked.

Carol considered her options for the hundredth time since James asked her about it. She had no objection to spending time with him, and God knew she needed a vacation. But heavens above, she didn't want others finding out about it. She could only imagine the ten gallon cowboy hat Tony would fill with lube and toys if he found out.

"Stop worrying about what Stark'll think," Jess said while loading up a chip with salsa.

"Get out of my head, freak."

"You know Tony will be happy as long as you keep his buddy happy."

"True. I mean, it's not like I'm secretly banging his brother or anything."

Jess froze with another chip halfway to her mouth. "You haven't said anything to Barton, have you?"

"Oh no," Carol chuckled. "That would deprive me of the joy of watching all this explode all over you."

"Why do I call you my best friend, again?"

"Because no one else will come pick up your drunk ass after last call on weekends."

Jess nodded. "Fair point."

* * *

><p>"This is officially the weirdest double-date you've ever dragged me on," James Rhodes said the next night.<p>

"You're just a sore fucking loser, Rhodes," Carol Danvers countered. She rubbed his hand over his head in some kind of open-fist noogie, and he laughed as he pulled her down next to him. The bowling alley was mostly filled by members of the local sixty-plus bowling league, but Tony'd conned the girl behind the counter into giving them a lane.

Tony was also studying his seven-ten split like it held the secrets to the universe.

"Seriously, though," James continued, and Bruce raised his eyebrows as he glanced over. "Tony tells me we're going on a mid-week double date, and I expect Pepper. Instead, I get you. Not something I'm complaining about, but it's a little out of character."

Bruce shrugged. "Tony likes reminding me to live a little," he said. His voice sounded almost aggressively casual.

Carol rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure mid-week bowling counts as living." James laughed at that, but when she leaned over to murmur something close to his ear, the laughter morphed into a whole different noise. She smirked before pulling away. "I need more beer. You good on soda, Bruce?"

He nodded. "Thanks, though."

She waved over her shoulder as she disappeared, and James actually patted Bruce on the shoulder before he stood to replace Tony as the active bowler. Tony dropped into the seat on Bruce's other side and promptly hooked an arm on the back of his chair. "We having fun yet?"

Bruce forced a smile. "Sure," he said, and turned to watch James bowl.

* * *

><p>"Come on, I know you have extra and I need it," Carol Danvers said, and Peter almost closed his arm in the copy machine's front door.<p>

He'd come into the copy-slash-mailbox-slash-gossip room to run a handful of copies for the rest of the week, but the machine—a plastic behemoth at least as old as him that sounded a little like a jet engine—had decided otherwise. In fact, it'd jammed so spectacularly that Peter'd needed to kneel down, open up all the doors and trays, and grope around in its great mechanical bowels.

Somehow, he'd gone totally unnoticed as Carol Danvers walked in to collect her mail.

And, apparently, as Jessica Drew hoisted herself up onto the little work counter that separated them from the copier and cackled.

"Tough day to be Carol Danvers, if you're coming to me for help," Jessica mocked, swinging her legs. She'd stolen a popsicle from the freezer in the teacher's lounge earlier, and now her lips were stained red. "Aren't you a former Girl Scout? Be prepared and all that?"

"That's Boy Scouts," Carol huffed.

"Yeah, but it doesn't answer my question."

"I'm going to show you what you can do with your question in about ten seconds," Carol grumbled, and Jessica laughed again. Peter tried to focus on his mission—extracting tiny shreds of paper from tray 6B—but Carol's groan of frustration distracted him. "Don't make me beg."

Jessica snorted. "Because you ain't too proud to beg?" she asked in almost a sing-song.

"I am not playing the song title game with you today, Jessica. Either you have extra, or you don't, but I—"

"God, okay, wow, your attitude is way worse when your sexy-times are being interrupted by natural processes," Jessica cut in. She hopped off the counter, and Peter glanced over to watch her plant her hands on her hips. "You sure this is just about you and your need for—"

"If you weren't my best friend, I might actually punch you right now," Carol threatened. She sounded genuine enough that Jessica raised her hands. "I thought I had some in my bag, but I didn't. And since you're always afraid of going without—"

"Because you don't remember the Desperate Times, Desperate Measures incident of Aught-Seven," Jessica retorted.

"—I figured you could hook me up."

"Well, you are in luck in that department, friend," Jessica replied, hooking her arm around Carol's neck. "Let's get you what you need."

They shut the door behind them, their voices disappearing almost immediately, and Peter flopped back against the copier. A tiny cloud of toner rained down around him, and he groaned as he started brushing it off his clothes (thereby making it worse). He tried to be a mature adult about it—fix the copier, run the copies, do not think about Jessica Drew, her best friend, or her mysterious "stuff"—but, well, his mind reeled anyway. He'd already overheard Jessica and Carol talking about some strange, secretive trip to Texas earlier in the week; now, suddenly, Jessica had something Carol needed but wouldn't actually name.

She also hung out with his aunt and her creepy boarder-slash-whatever, meaning—

"Okay, how are you still in here?" a voice demanded, and Peter almost lost his arm to tray 6B as he jerked around to see Darcy Lewis standing in front of him. "Please tell me you're not actually checking every tray for a jam. I trained you better than that."

He blinked. "I was just—"

"Get up, get up," she demanded, and when he hesitated, she treated him to a lot of emphatic gesturing. Once he moved out of the way, she slammed all the doors shut, lifted the cover off the glass, and closed it again. "All you need to do is trick it into thinking that you cleaned the trays out," she explained. "The sensors are busted and full of toner. There's almost never an actual jam."

Peter scowled. "But—"

She thumbed the start button, and immediately, his copies started racing through the machine. She smirked. "Next time, pay attention to my trainings. They're literally invaluable."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Thanks," he said, and she nodded like she deserved it. He watched her fill mailboxes for a few minutes—it seemed like the boxes were constantly stuffed with book order forms, catalogues, notes, and other various paperwork—before he thought to ask, "What do you know about Jessica?"

Darcy glanced over her shoulder. "Drew or Cage?"

"Drew."

Darcy shrugged. "She's pretty cool. Nuts, but cool."

Peter rolled his lips together. "Nuts how?"

"Just— I don't know, you know how sometimes there are those people who are so smart that they're eccentric and ridiculous?" she asked. "Like Stark, only the ridiculousness is accidental and not a front for a billion weird insecurities." Peter frowned a little, but he nodded. "Jessica's like that, but without the 'so smart' part. She's just, you know, weird. I think she was dropped on her head as a baby."

"Is that really a thing?"

"That's what she tells everybody, so maybe." Darcy shoved a stack of papers into Stark's already overflowing mailbox before turning back around. "She's mostly harmless. Sort of a 'her bark is worse than her bite' kind of thing."

Peter nodded a little, not that Darcy's reassurances really helped to soothe any of his fears. "And Danvers—"

"Do not fuck with Carol Danvers," she immediately returned. He opened his mouth, and she pointed her index finger at him. "Trust me, Parker, if you value your life? You do not ever fuck with Carol Danvers or her weird symbiotic relationship with Jessica Drew. They're synched. I meansynched. They're a hive-mind. You do not touch that."

"But—"

"You do not touch it," she repeated, and when she strode out of the room, she left Peter alone with his copies, his new toner freckles, and a sinking feeling that he'd just witnessed something a lot weirder than a Danvers-Drew "hive-mind" (whatever that meant).

* * *

><p>"So, you're coming for dinner tomorrow night?" Steve asked on Thursday, and Bruce froze.<p>

He stared at his desk for a long time, the book orders blurring in his vision for a moment before he managed to lift his head. Steve hovered in the doorway, face expectant and eyebrows raised.

Bruce forced himself to breathe. "Sorry?"

"Dinner tomorrow. Tony said— Well, that's probably my first mistake, trusting Tony to tell any two people the same thing." Bruce pressed his lips together to keep from frowning, but Steve just leaned against the doorframe. "Bucky and I are trying to invite people over for dinner every once in a while, and when I asked Tony if he and Pepper wanted to come, he said Pepper had plans but you were available. I just assumed—"

"That Tony would've told me?" Bruce tried to smile through the question, but he heard the tension in his own voice. Steve nodded uncertainly. "That makes four times this week."

"Four times?" Steve repeated.

"Sorry, just— Tony." Bruce shook his head a little, feeling very small under Steve's intense gaze. He returned to sorting through the book orders and ignored the way his temper fizzed just under his skin. "I actually don't think I can come on Friday night," he said after a few more seconds. "Tony didn't really give me advanced notice, and—"

"Hey, I totally understand," Steve replied, his tone purposely light. "Bucky's kind of the same way. Or at least, he claims to be when my mom suddenly shows up on our doorstep."

Bruce forced a little smile. "It might just be your mother," he pointed out.

"Or having to wear a shirt," Steve joked. Bruce actually chuckled a little, and Steve grinned as he pushed away from the door. "I just— I wanted to make sure you know you're welcome," he pressed, and Bruce rolled his lips together. "Dinner or no dinner, Tony or no Tony. Okay?"

Bruce nodded slightly. "Okay," he said. He held his smile all the way until Steve disappeared down the hall, and when he finally exhaled, it rushed out in a sharp, ugly noise. "As though 'no Tony' is ever really an option, anymore," he muttered to no one, and returned to his book orders.

* * *

><p>The knock sounded around ten on Friday night. Bucky sighed wearily. He'd just finally settled into his sweatpants, dammit. Steve'd insisted on going out for dinner and a movie, even though Tony and Bruce had canceled on them. And since Saturday was going to be occupied with the annual binging on college football and food at the Barton-Coulson residence, Steve wanted them to sneak in some alone time. Bucky would've been just fine ordering a pizza and renting some flick from through OnDemand, but no. That wasn't good enough for Steve.<p>

Why he'd agreed to marry a man with such strong puppy dog eye game was beyond Bucky.

Granted, the food at the diner on the edge of town was amazing, and the movie hadn't been half bad, but Bucky was tired. Once Friday night came, he just wanted to crash and not have to suffer with being out on the town. Even if his date had an ass that refused to quit.

"I'll get it," Steve offered as he started to rise from the couch.

Bucky pulled him back down by the arm. "Be really quiet, and maybe they'll leave."

The knocking sounded again, followed by, "James, I know you're in there."

"Fuck," Bucky muttered under his breath.

Steve frowned slightly. "Maybe she's finally ready to talk. You should let her in."

Bucky bit his tongue, but he got off the couch anyway. Of course it would be great if Nat wanted to get some things off her chest. But odds were any venting session she'd have would end in the mother of all hangovers for Bucky, and he was too tired for that shit.

When he opened the door, the bottom of a vodka bottle landed in the middle of his chest. Natasha had her hand wrapped around the neck and used the booze to force him back inside the house. "I've come with conditions," she announced.

"Conditions for what?"

She tilted her head and gave him her patented You're an idiot stare. "For being your best man?"

"Sure you should call her that?" Steve asked as he leaned into the doorway separating the entryway from the kitchen. "She's a lady."

"You clearly do not know her that well," Bucky commented before Natasha slugged him in the arm.

"C'mon," Natasha said as she led the men into the kitchen. Bucky watched as she opened cabinet after cabinet until she found shot glasses. She paused as she reached for them and looked over her shoulder at Steve. "I guess we're now splitting these bottles into thirds?"

"I don't have to—" Steve started.

"Please," Bucky interrupted. "We all know you'll still drink most of it, Nat. Which is probably for the best. Now pour the shots so we can get this over with." He reached behind him, fisted the hem of Steve's t-shirt, and pulled him closer to the kitchen counter.

Natasha passed around the glasses, lifted hers, and toasted them in her native tongue before throwing back her shot. Steve looked at Bucky with a bit of concern. "Was that a blessing or a curse?"

"Probably both," Bucky answered before throwing back his drink. Steve did the same and immediately started coughing. Bucky slapped him on the back a few times until he was sure that his fiancé was still able to breathe.

Natasha started to pour another round, but both men quickly stopped that nonsense. "I'm not spending all day around Tony Stark with the mother of all hangovers," Bucky said.

"Wuss," Natasha returned before throwing back a second shot for herself.

"So what're your conditions?" Steve asked, his voice still a little rough from his coughing fit.

"One," she said as she began to tick off points with her fingers, "I'm throwing your bachelor party." Bucky felt his stomach drop in dread at that, but nodded nonetheless. "Two, I'm not doing any wedding showers. I'll make up all the games about penises you want, but I'm not suffering through some trivia game about who said 'I love you' first."

"Fair enough," Bucky agreed.

"Three, I'm picking out my own dress. Steve can assign me a color, but I'm doing the shopping."

"We haven't gotten that far yet with planning," Steve told her. "But I'll make sure it's not something like fuchsia."

Natasha wrinkled her nose at that. "Please don't. There's no way that color would work with my hair. I'd have to dye it blond or something." She paused, her eyes flickering back and forth between Steve and Bucky, before landing squarely on her best friend. "Fourth, the final one: you have forty-eight hours to start telling people about the engagement, or I'm out."

Bucky looked over at Steve just in time to see him roll his lips to hide a smile and duck his head. He turned back to Natasha. "Are you kidding me?"

"Grow a pair, Barnes. Everyone knows you two are a sure thing. Hell, you'll probably be the first of us to have kids, even if your parts aren't compatible for that sort of thing ." She arched an eyebrow at him. "Quit using your privacy as an excuse, man up, and start telling people. Because if you don't, Steve's going to spontaneously combust, and out of the two of you, he's the one everyone likes the most."

"Gee, thanks," Bucky replied. Natasha looked at him expectantly; he didn't even really want to look in Steve's direction right now. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. He heard Steve suck in air beside him and he couldn't help but smile a little. "Tomorrow?" he asked. "Kill a bunch of birds with one stone?"

"Yeah," Steve said quietly as a thousand-watt grin took over his face. "Sounds like a great idea."

"Get a room," Natasha muttered as she closed the cap on the vodka bottle.

"You can't drive with that," Steve warned. "It's an open container."

"Only if I get caught," Natasha returned. The pair of them stared each other done for a second, and Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. A moment later, Natasha rolled her eyes, and put the bottle in the back of their freezer. "I'll come back for that later. You may or may not be home when I do."

"Stop being a menace," Bucky warned as he nudged her towards the front door.

"Have a good night," Steve called out to her, and she waved over her shoulder at him.

When they stepped out onto the front stoop, Bucky leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Thanks," he said quietly.

"For being your best man?"

"For including Steve in our—" He paused to flap a hand between them. "—whatever this is."

"Friendship, you dumbass."

"Yeah," he laughed. Bucky looked at her closely. The fiery part that made Natasha who she was had been absent for weeks, but now he could see the faintest hint of its return. "You doin' better?"

She shrugged. "I'm not worse. That's something, I guess."

He nodded. "Text me when you get home."

"I live five minutes away."

"Humor me," he told her.

"Pretty sure you guys will already be busy screwing each other's brains out by then."

"You could stay and watch," he offered with a smirk.

"I'd rather go home and watch porn," she said. "While they may not be as hot as the two of you, at least they won't be shouting about how much they love each other when they come."

"Hey," Bucky said in a defensive tone. "I only do that when he's sucking my dick."

Natasha rolled her eyes, climbed into her jeep, and drove away. When Bucky walked back into the house, Steve stood there with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Only when I'm sucking your dick?" he asked, a not-impressed expression on his face.

Bucky felt like his skin was just turned inside out. He was eighty percent sure Steve was playing with him, but at the moment, he couldn't get enough blood to his head to know for sure.

Steve stalked toward him, and Christ on a cracker, Bucky felt like he was already about to explode. His fiancé stared him down for a moment before he beamed an infuriating smirk. "You and I both know that isn't true."

* * *

><p>"Wow, looks like you're really busy with all your other plans," Tony said on Friday night. He stood on Bruce's doorstep, still dressed in his work clothes; when Bruce hesitated to invite him in, he slid right into the foyer.<p>

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I didn't know I needed to clear my schedule with you."

"Ordinarily, no, but right now? Definitely yes." Tony's gaze swept over Bruce—already in his pajama pants and a t-shirt, his feet bare and his hair rumpled—before he glanced at his watch. "If you throw your work clothes back on, we can show up before dinner's cold and just claim we're fashionably late."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tony—"

"Actually," Tony continued with a shrug, "it might be for the best. Rogers and Barnes can exchange quick back-bedroom blowjobs, keep the sexual tension down to a simmer until we leave, and then everybody—"

"Except I'm not going to the damn dinner."

The tension in Bruce's voice crackled like electricity on the air, and Tony blinked blankly at him. He looked halfway between surprised and hurt, and Bruce dragged a hand over his face. "I'm not really in the mood for—"

"Human interaction?" Tony demanded. "Dinner with people who like you? Something that doesn't involve sitting alone in your house?" Bruce pressed his lips together, still silent, and Tony rolled his eyes. "If I'm interrupting your busy schedule of shitty history documentaries and science journals, just say the word and I'll split, but the way I see it, you need to actually hang out with—"

"With your wife and other couples!" Bruce shouted, and for the first time in weeks, the dam that held back his temper finally buckled and burst. He threw up his hands. "Has it ever occurred to you that what you're doing is maybe the last thing I need right now?"

Tony swallowed. "Bruce, I didn't—"

"You didn't what? Mean to remind me about how badly I just fucked everything up?" he demanded. Tony's jaw snapped shut, and Bruce snorted out a bitter half-laugh. "You didn't mean to subject me to your happy marriage, or Jasper's desperate need to commit himself to his girlfriend, or all these happy couples? Because you're usually not that stupid, even if you are that thoughtless."

The last word cracked like a whip, harsher than even Bruce expected, and Tony's shoulders tightened. "That's not fair, and you know it," he said. "You're allowed to be hurt, and you can even be pissed off that I accidentally—emphasis on the accidentally—elbowed you right where it hurts, but you don't get to call me thoughtless when the only thing I've spent the last week doing is looking out for you."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Because I need a babysitter."

"Because you need to do something other than hiding!" Tony snapped back, and Bruce twisted away to glare at the floor. Tony scoffed, his hands fluttering agitatedly in Bruce's peripheral vision. "You think I don't notice the way you avoid everybody? The way you leave group outings early, the way you stay later than everybody else at work just so you don't run into us in the parking lot?" Bruce's jaw trembled without his permission, and he ground his teeth together. "Parker's driving everybody up the wall because you don't reply to his e-mails," Tony pressed, "you don't reply to mytexts, and as far as I can see, you're just turning into a recluse who looks sad all the fucking time." He sighed. "Bruce, I want to help you through this, you know I do, but if you just stay silent, I can't—"

"You can leave."

The words escaped unevenly, a half-hiss, half-whisper that Bruce felt more than heard, and once again, Tony fell abruptly silent. Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat and forced himself to glance over at his friend. At his happily married best friend, a man who proudly told the world time and again that he'd never loved someone the way he loved Pepper Potts.

A man who'd never felt what Bruce'd felt, this slow descent into silence and loneliness.

Bruce shook his head. "If you want to help," he said, "you can leave."

"Bruce—"

"You can stop barging in, and you can leave," he repeated, and when Tony refused to do nothing more than stare at him, he turned and walked away.

He closed himself in his bedroom, his back against the door and his face tipped up toward the ceiling, closing his eyes as he listened to the front door close behind Tony. His jaw ached, but not nearly as much or as deeply as his chest, and he fought against both as he curled his hands into fists. He hated his bedroom now, like he hated most of the house; the silence hollowed him out, and worse, he still imagined hints of Natasha's scent lingering in the air.

The empty, lonely feeling followed him like a shadow.

Like Tony, he thought, and he forced himself to step away from door.

He wasn't surprised, necessarily, to find Tony waiting for him on the couch, the light from the television playing across his features. He stared straight ahead, turning the remote over in his hands in an endless, twitchy loop that faltered when Bruce stepped into the room.

Bruce wet his lips. "Tony—"

"Maybe you need to be alone," Tony said quietly, his eyes big and brown as he turned to glance up at Bruce. "Maybe being around other people, other couples— Maybe that's the wrong way. I mean, I didn't know you when you lost Betty, and I've never really gone through what you're going through now, so maybe I don't know how this part works. I just—" He paused to swallow audibly. "I'm worried, okay? I'm a stupid worried asshole, and barging in is kind of what I do."

Bruce felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I know."

"And I'm probably not going to stop until I know you're okay. You get that, right? I'm not going to be able to turn it off until I'm sure that the Bruce I know is going to be all right."

Bruce nodded a little, walking almost automatically over to the couch. He mirrored Tony's posture, his hands folding between his knees as he stared out at the bare shelves he'd cleared for Natasha and had yet to refill. "It could be a while," he admitted quietly.

Tony shrugged. "I am the very model of a modern patient gentleman, you know," he deadpanned, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Bruce actually laughed.

* * *

><p>Clint had a love-hate relationship with the annual football get-together that took place in his living room. The group made sure to keep a Saturday clear in their schedule so that they could have time to bet money, commit gluttony, yell at each other, and generally relax.<p>

Tony'd already set up his stupid white board in the living room, marking picks for the few who were present. Phil'd already yelled at him twice about how the wheels of the collapsible thing were going to scratch the hardwood floors. Clint had rolled his eyes and pulled Pepper into the kitchen so that they could escape their bickering spouses.

"Are you sure you didn't put too much garlic in here?" Pepper asked as she taste-tested the chili.

Clint snatched the spoon out of her hand. "There is no such thing as too much garlic. Don't make me throw you out of my kitchen."

Others began to trickle in slowly. They deposited drinks into the fridge and tried to sneak chili out of the large pot on the stove, only to be chased away by Clint and his wooden spoon. Bucky arrived, stuck his pesto pizza into the oven, and then joined Clint in standing guard until food was ready.

They were all settled in for the first game of the day—Oklahoma at Tennessee—when Clint finally squeezed onto the couch next to Phil. Clint wasn't one for mushy sentiment, but it was nice to see all his friends crammed into his living room, and—for the most part—happy. Carol didn't seem to mind being cozy with her guy in front of everyone, which was something Clint made a mental note to bring up on Monday.

Darcy came in later, traditional vat of neon pink homebrew in her arms. A tall man Clint didn't recognize trailed behind her. "Everyone," Darcy announced, "this is Loki. We're a thing. You can ask questions after I've had two glasses of this stuff," she said while jostling her mystery-recipe booze.

"Thor's brother?" Tony asked skeptically.

Clint understood why Tony was dubious; the stranger's arms weren't nearly as close in size to the president of the PTA. In fact, the two didn't really resemble each other in looks at all.

"Adopted," the stranger answered in the British accent, a trait that Clint never really understood since the family was supposed to be Swedish or whatever. But his answer explained a lot.

"What do you do, Loki?" Phil asked.

"I'm a doctoral student, doing a thesis on ancient Norse literature."

Both Clint and Darcy noticed how Phil immediately perked up at the answer. "I'll let mine make out with yours if we get to make out," Darcy offered Clint.

"No deal," he told her.

"Sorry I'm late," Jessica Drew announced as she ducked inside the door. "My thing from this morning ran a little long."

"Thing?" Carol questioned.

Clint noticed two things right off the bat: the comment made Peter Parker twitch, and, for the first time all day, Birdie didn't bark at the newest visitor to the house. Almost like she was used to the person.

"Where's your boyfriend, Drew?" Clint asked. He felt Phil shoot him a dirty look, but he ignored both it and Carol's snort.

"Uh, he had a… thing."

"A thing?" Carol asked again with a quirked eyebrow.

Jess shot her best friend a dirty look, clearly not pleased that she was ganging up on her with Clint. "Yes, a thing."

"That's a shame," Clint replied. "It'd be nice to meet him. I mean, I don't know how much I'd have in common with a guy whose girlfriend leaves red, lacy bras in the front bushes of someone's house, but—"

"You told him!" Jessica half-shouted, half-hissed at Carol.

The woman raised her hands in defense. "Wasn't me."

The whole thing just seemed to make the Parker kid twitchier, but Clint wasn't going to touch that with a ten foot pole. It was disgusting enough to think about Jessica Drew banging his brother.

It wasn't until halftime of the second game of the day that Nat snuck into the kitchen with Clint. He was busy cleaning some of the dishes, but really was ready for any excuse to get away from Tony and his endless breakdown of betting pool stats.

"Hey stranger," Clint greeted.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Nat replied as she pulled a beer out of the fridge.

"Had enough time skulking in the corner?"

She flipped him off. "So, I know I've missed a lot the last couple of months, but if you guys are still free on Tuesday…"

Clint bumped his shoulder into hers. "Tasha, you're welcome here no matter what day of the week it is. You know that."

"Thanks," she told him softly.

Before she could say anything else, Birdie started going berserk again. Both he and Nat craned their necks to see who the new arrival was. When he spotted Bruce, Clint tried his best not to look worried. "You okay with this?" he asked quietly.

Natasha huffed at him. "It's fine, we're adults. You should try it sometime."

"Just say the word, and I'll literally throw him out of the house."

Nat stomped on his toes for that, but he decided to take it as a thank you.

Once everyone was settled back in their seats, Steve stood, cleared his throat, and rooted himself in front of the television.

"Dude," Carol's boyfriend warned. "That is not a smart thing to do."

"I'll make it brief," he said despite pausing to scratch the back of his neck. Clint shot a quick, questioning look to Phil, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "Uh, so, Buck and I just wanted you all to know that umm…"

"Waited weeks to tell everyone and now he can't get the words out," Bucky muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Steve shot the man a dirty look before continuing, "Bucky proposed the week before school. We're getting married."

The room immediately erupted into cheers, slaps on backs, and a series of hugs. Clint let the celebration go own for a couple of minutes before whistling everyone silent. He leveled a stare at Steve and crossed his arms over his chest. "When?" he asked.

"We haven't picked out a date yet," Steve answered. "But odds are good you guys will maintain your record. I don't think we could plan this out that quickly."

Bucky snorted. "Says you. I'm still good for eloping." Steve gave him a hurt look, but Bucky shook his head. "He who doesn't have four sisters doesn't get to give me that face."

"I'll plan it," Tony announced from the couch. "You just tell me what you want for the date and general ambiance, and I'll make it happen."

"No," half the room said in unison.

Tony put on an expression of mock hurt before turning to Pepper. "Tell them I plan fantastic weddings."

"You've only planned one. Three people were involved, and it came together in two days."

"It was still a good wedding," Tony muttered.


	5. Chapter 5

In Trip's defense—not that it's that great a defense—he missed most the warning signs.

Years ago, back in his middle school days, Trip'd scrapped with the best of them. He'd never considered himself a violent kid or a bully, but he'd grown up in the days of "boys will be boys," and sometimes, being a boy'd included shoving somebody around at the bus stop. But the first time he'd landed a punch on someone—Emil Walker, out on the ball field on the second-to-last day of eighth grade—his parents'd sat him down and dragged him through the longest, most heart-wrenching we're not so much mad as we are disappointed talk of his life. If somebody asked, he'd deny crying, but he'd sat in his room and thought long and hard about his mistakes, after that.

But he'd taken his parents' speech to heart, too. Learned to soothe people instead of riling them up. Developed a knack for talking folks out of their conflicts and smoothing out the wrinkles. He liked all that.

So, like he said: he missed the warning signs.

See, Jessica Cage's fifth grade class included a clump of four little hellions that Trip only trusted as far as he could throw him. Most the kids'd already warmed up to Trip—they'd finally stopped complaining about how he didn't do things the same way as May Parker, at least—but these four were a whole different level of trouble. Because while most of the kids recognized his authority on some level, Pedro, Jaxton, John, and Mike seemed hell-bent on showing him (and everybody else) who was boss.

He thought he knew their game by the time the third or fourth week rolled around; they were mostly just a clump of big, mean boys with bigger, meaner attitudes. He'd worn out his voice at bus duty redirecting them before they bowled over the smaller kids or bullied some girl into tears, and for all the real apologetic expressions they flashed him, he knew they wouldn't mind it if he bought a one-way ticket for Puerto Rico.

This particular day—a day that Trip felt pretty confident would live in teaching-career infamy—the gruesome double-twosome'd paired off the second they walked in the room. Trip sensed the dissent in their ranks like a dog sniffed out fear, and for a while, he eyed them cautiously: Pedro and Jaxton on one side of the room, John and Mike on the other. Pedro mean-mugged John like his life depended on it; John avoided eye contact.

"You good?" Trip asked at one point as he passed out one of their assignments.

Jaxton nodded. "Fine," he said.

Pedro never stopped glaring.

Trip kept his eye out for trouble as long as possible, but he was one man in a room full of needy kids who still didn't know a staccato from a slur. He crouched down between two girls to help them with their assignment—a crazy-fun puzzle where identifying the music symbols and the notes on the bass clef answered a riddle—and for the first time all period, dragged his eyes away from the four boys.

It meant he missed when Pedro slid out of his chair, or when John stood up unexpectedly.

Well, until Pedro pounced on John, that is.

It happened in a heartbeat, but suddenly, the boys were on the floor, worksheets flying everywhere as they thrashed into tables, chairs, and other people. A bunch of girls jumped out of the way, Mike shouted at them to stop, and Trip—

Trip somehow remembered how to smash the intercom button and ask Darcy to send somebody down to the room. His voice shook, but not as much as his legs as he charged across the room. Practically had to vault a couple girls to do it, but somehow, he crossed the distance just as John staggered to his feet.

Jaxton grabbed Pedro's arm, but John lunged at his buddy-turned-enemy, his arms outstretched like he planned on throttling him. Mike yelled again, louder, and it distracted John just long enough for Trip to step between them. John almost slugged him somewhere in the gut, but he pulled back the second he realized who exactly'd blocked his approach.

"Stop," Trip said, loud and firm as possible even as his whole body felt like it might rumble apart at the seams. John stared up at him, tears and blood from his nose (and maybe his lip) mingling on his face. Pedro false-started, rage still in his eyes, and Trip spread himself out. Stood as strong as he could, his hands out and ready to deflect another grab.

John balled his fists. Pedro squared his shoulders.

"You need—"

"He talked bad about my mom!" Pedro roared, cutting Trip off. The collective gasp of scandalized fifth graders almost drowned out the sound of his heart racing in his ears. Pedro reached toward John, and Jaxton pulled him back by his shirt. "After everything, he called her—"

"That's not what I said!" John defended. "I never said anything like that, you're just making it up because—"

"What is going on in here?" a whole new voice roared, and all the kids shut up like their lives depended on it as Nick Fury and Jasper Sitwell flew into the room. Sitwell looked about ready to grapple some kid to the ground, and Fury—

Fury's eye swept out across the room like he planned on developing laser vision just to set every one of Trip's fifth graders on fire. When his attention finally landed on the four boys, they cowered in unison. Even Pedro's rage dimmed to a simmer. "Cartwright, Tanner, Ramirez, in my office," he said sharply.

Jaxton gulped. "But we didn't—"

"You want to make me repeat myself, Mister Cartwright?" Fury demanded. The boys all snapped to attention before shaking their heads in terrified unison. "Mister Lane," he said to John, "you're with Mister Sitwell. He'll get you cleaned up."

John wiped his face with the back of his hand, but he nodded, too.

Fury marched the kids out of the room, quick as anything, and only paused for one half-second to touch Trip on the shoulder. Trip found his eye and nodded—affirmation, he thought, that his hands'd steadied enough to keep handling the class. Fury nodded back before disappearing.

Disappearing, and leaving him with twenty wide-eyed kids and a floor covered in worksheets.

He swallowed the lump in the back of his throat before he turned to all the students. A couple of the girls looked about ready to cry.

"How about I break into the suckers we save for review games and we watch a video on how they make pianos?" he asked.

He swore the whole class nodded as one.

* * *

><p>"Shit," Clint said, dragging his hand through his hair. "You sure?"<p>

"Uh, I'm calling their parents the second I'm off the phone with you," Darcy retorted. "Do I need to start calling you geriatric hottie?"

He snorted. "Leave that one open for Phil," he joked, and hung up while she laughed.

In all his years teaching, Clint'd learned that three things spread through an elementary school like wild-fire: crushes, pregnancies, and fights. The kids whispered the news about who liked who and which teacher'd shoved a bun in an oven like nobody's business, but fights— Fights raised Clint's hackles like nothing else. Fights pitted kids against each other until they ended up acting like prepubescent Sharks and Jets, and Clint hated policing his classroom for secretive rhythmic snapping.

(He also hated Phil for dragging him to that art house screening of West Side Story over the weekend, but he'd save that for a different day.)

His kids appeared mostly clueless about the whole "brawl down in the music room" thing when they stomped back through the door from gym, and Clint spent most of their actual class time charming the hell out of them with vocabulary games and really bad puns. "Blame Mister Coulson," he said about the even the cake was in tiers joke, and the class rolled their eyes pretty much in unison.

But of course, all good things end eventually.

He wasn't really surprised to find Cage out in the hall, her arms crossed as she supervised the switch with a face Grumpy Cat would've envied. He caught her eyes just to mouth How bad? over the sea of heads.

Her jaw tightened. Good luck, she mouthed back, and Clint grimaced.

The lesson plan of the day was really just to review vocabulary words and work on polishing up the first persuasive essay of the year (topic: one thing you'd change about school if you could). Clint plastered on his best and biggest smile as he handed out the game pieces to the vocabulary match puzzle, but he knew halfway through his loop of the room that no amount of smiling was actually going to help. The kids were twitchy and full of whispers, a bad sign.

"First group done earns my undying respect for their speed and accuracy," he joked as he handed over the last envelope. "Last group done earns my undying respect for their thoroughness. And go."

Two thirds of the class dove right in, but the other third—

"I think it's messed up," Callie stage-whispered to the other three kids in her group, and Clint worked hard not to roll his eyes as he wove his way across the classroom. "Pedro's just mean."

"Maybe John had a reason to say it," Louie replied with a shrug. At least he was pretending to sort through the game pieces. "I mean, you don't just call somebody's mom a—a that unless you—"

"Don't you know about Pedro's mom?" Callie interrupted. The other three all blinked at her, and she gaped at them. "Didn't your parents tell you? Because my mom told me—"

"That it's not cool to talk about people who aren't around to defend themselves?" Clint asked. Callie froze, her mouth hanging open; the eavesdroppers at the two pods nearest to hers immediately snapped back into gear. Clint snagged an empty chair from a nearby desk and dragged it over. "You know that's a problem, right?" he asked the group of them. "Talking about people when they're not around, I mean."

"We all saw what happened in Mister Triplett's room," Finn pointed out. Callie nodded emphatically. "Pedro said John called his mom something."

"And John said he didn't," Lyssa chimed in. The other three shot her dirty looks. "What? That's what happened."

"But John's a liar," Callie retorted. "He always—"

"It doesn't matter if John told you the moon's made of cheese and that I'm the guy in the William Tell story," Clint broke in again, "he's not here to defend himself." The kids frowned at him, and he sighed. "William Tell? Apple on his head? How have you not heard this story?"

"We're not old?" Louie suggested.

His friends snickered at the joke—and at the way Clint narrowed his eyes like he planned on threatening the kid. At least, until Finn looked up from the game pieces. "We still saw the fight. We know how it happened."

"No, you know what you saw, and that's different from the whole story." Finn's brow crinkled, so Clint leaned forward, his arms on his elbows. "Let's say I know a guy," he explained after a couple seconds. "And I tell you that he's the meanest guy I've ever met. Makes all kinds of bad choices, never apologizes, drives me up a wall. He doesn't treat his friends right, doesn't treat his family right, doesn't even really treat dogs right." He shrugged. "What would you think about the guy?"

The kids all glanced at each other before Lyssa volunteered, "I'd think that he's mean."

"Anybody who's mean to dogs is really bad," Callie agreed.

Clint nodded. "Right. But then, let's say I brought Miss Parker in here. You guys like Miss Parker a lot, right?" The kids hardly hesitated before they all chimed in with their yeahs. "You know what Miss Parker'd tell you about the mean-to-dogs guy?"

From somewhere else in the classroom, a student asked, "What?"

When Clint looked around, he discovered that most of the room'd fallen into his conversation with Callie and her group mates. He grinned over his shoulder at all of them. "I thought we were trying to earn my undying respect."

"We got it when we won the spelling game," Hannah informed him, and her pod (minus the still-missing Mike Tanner) nodded right along.

"And when we helped clean up after the soap thing in the bathroom broke," Chris added in from across the room.

Clint sighed. "Really got to be stingier with my respect." He hopped up out of the uncomfortable plastic chair to head back to the front of the room. "If you asked Miss Parker about the mean-dog guy," he said again as he perched on the edge of his desk, "she'd tell you he was the nicest guy you'd ever meet. Helps her out with stuff around the house. Never disrespects her at all. Treats her good as gold and better." The kids all sort of stared at him, and he shrugged. "Who do you believe, then? Me or Miss Parker?"

The room fell silent for a couple seconds before Callie, all the way in the back, shifted around in her chair. "We don't know if he's nice unless we meet him, do we?" she asked.

Clint grinned at her, and her face lit up like a firework on the fourth of July. "And that," he said, pointing a finger in her direction, "is why we don't talk about people unless they're there to tell us their own stories. Because until they tell us themselves, we don't know. You got it?"

For the most part, the students nodded.

"Good. Now, seriously, somebody needs to earn my respect, I'm sick of hanging onto this stuff."

* * *

><p>Nick Fury drummed his fingers against the conference room table as he waited, maybe a little impatiently, for Antonio Ramirez to join him, Sitwell, and the Lanes. They'd met with Jaxton Cartwright and Mike Tanner first, walking them through all the reasons that tagging along to a fight counted as fueling the fire. The boys'd fidgeted and stared at their hands, unwilling to offer any sort of defense until Sitwell'd finally said, "Who wants to go first?"<p>

Mike's face had turned cartoon-ghost white, but Jaxton'd blinked. "First for what?"

"For being in the room when I call your parents to pick you up for the rest of the day."

Nick'd never seen a kid go from confused to tearful so damn fast.

Mike and Jaxton were both home now, presumably learning valuable lessons from their harried parents; after all, Madeline Cartwright had leveled Nick a terrifying glance before promising, "This will never happen again." From the stricken look on Jaxton's face, Nick'd believed it.

(Connie Tanner, on the other hand, had apparently passed the buck to her mother, a tiny old lady with a cane and a fiery disposition. "You wait until we get in that car, young man," she'd snapped at Mike, and Mike'd dropped his eyes to the floor.

Sometimes, Nick really wished he could be the fly on his students' walls.)

Without their co-conspirators, Pedro and John spent a lot of time studying their hands, the wall, or the floor. John's parents, who'd both left work to meet with Nick and Sitwell, spent most their time glancing at their watches. Nick remembered Darcy muttering something about them working for an investment firm; from the way they fidgeted every couple seconds, he wondered whether their time really was money.

"I'm sorry, Mister Fury," Mrs. Lane said after the tenth or eleventh time she shifted around in her seat, "but we don't have all day. And given that our son is the victim here—"

"He started it," Pedro muttered.

Mr. Lane's jaw tightened, but Sitwell offered him one of his doing-this-because-I-have-to smiles. "We're not placing blame on anybody," he said, "but until your parents get here—"

"Not placing blame?" Mr. Lane demanded. "With all due respect, Mister Sitwell, this boy attacked our son in the middle of class, unprovoked, and you expect us to believe that no one is to blame?"

Pedro's whole body jerked as he sat up on the edge of his chair. "But John said—"

"And right now," Nick cut him off, "we're not discussing who said or did what." The boy sunk back down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "We're here to figure out why this happened so you can both go back to class later this week without me or any of your other teachers worrying about another fight. No he-said, he-did."

Mrs. Lane snorted and shot Pedro a hard glance. "I think I know why things like this happen."

Nick almost challenged her on that—in his experience, pretty white ladies in pearls only side-eye you like that when their theories begin and end with the color of your skin—but right then, the door to the conference room opened. "Sorry," Mr. Ramirez said as he rushed into the room, his hat literally in his hand. "Pedro's sister's home sick from the middle school today, and I had to find somebody to take her before I could come over here and talk to you about this." He slid into the chair next to Pedro. "I'm so sorry. About all of this, this isn't like Pedro. He's rough sometimes, but he doesn't fight."

The Lanes both looked about ready to roll their eyes, but John kept his attention fixed on the floor.

"We'll get to that," Nick promised, and Mr. Ramirez nodded unevenly as he reached over to pat his son's leg. "Like I was just trying to tell the Lanes, Mister Sitwell and I like to bring in all the parents when things like this happen and try to get to the bottom of it. No finger-pointing, no placing the blame, but a dialogue to figure out why what started as a battle of words turned into a full-on fight—and to make sure it doesn't happen again." He glanced at both the boys. "So far, none of the boys are willing to answer that question."

Mr. Lane sighed. "Again, Mister Fury, there's no question to answer. That other boy attacked our son because of a misunderstanding, and I'll nothave—"

"He called my mom a bitch!" Pedro suddenly roared, rocketing out of his chair. Sitwell started to stand, but Nick stilled him with a hand. "He thought I wasn't listening, but he told Jaxton and they laughed about it! And when Mike told him to stop, he said, 'Maybe that's why she went away, because she's a bitch and mean and—'"

His voice shook, the words catching in the back of his throat, and when he dropped back down into his chair, his father reached for him. Pedro fell halfway into his grip, his shoulders trembling, and Mr. Ramirez shook his head. "My wife, she's been—struggling, a little, with some issues she had back before we married," he said gently. "She's gone to a facility, I guess you'd say. To get better." He stroked Pedro's hair. "She'll get better."

For the first time since the conversation started, something halfway to sympathy flashed across Mrs. Lane's face. Her husband, sitting on the other side of their son, swallowed audibly. "Did you know that?" he asked John. "About his mom?"

John shifted his weight. "I was joking, I didn't—"

"Jonathan," Mr. Lane snapped. When John nodded sheepishly, his father sighed. "I can't believe you," he said, disappointment overtaking his tone as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I— Mr. Ramirez, I am so sorry."

"It's okay," Mr. Ramirez replied in a voice that proved just how not okay it all was.

Across the table, Nick—level-headed peace keeper of the universe to these parents and a whole different person to his staff—forced a calming smile. "Now, let's start getting to the real bottom of what all's going on here," he suggested, and thank god that all three parents nodded.

* * *

><p>Pepper tried to smile warmly as she led Pedro and his dad into her office. She pointed at a small, older laptop that was set up on a kiddie-sized table in the corner. "Pedro, you can play games on that while your dad and I talk, okay?"<p>

The boy eyed the outdated technology suspiciously. "It doesn't look like there's anything fun on there."

Pepper placed her hands on her hips. "I'll have you know that Mister Stark built that computer specifically for my students."

Pedro shot her an unimpressed look. "Mister Stark's class isn't always as fun as he says it's going to be."

"Pedro," his father warned softly. "Manners."

"It's okay," Pepper reassured him. "I'm well aware of how much Mister Stark can exaggerate when describing how enjoyable something will be." She turned her attention back to the fifth grader. "If it's as boring as you think it's going to be, you get to point that out to him when you have computers again. But I will warn you, every student who's played that game has gotten pretty addicted to it."

Pedro looked warily between Pepper and the laptop for a second before turning his attention to his father. "Go play," the man said. As soon as the boy was absorbed in the game's tutorial, Pepper waved Mister Ramirez toward the seat in front of her desk.

"Mister Fury made me aware of what happened today, both in Mister Triplett's classroom and in the parent meeting you just had, and I wanted to talk to you to see if there was anything we at the school could do in order to help you and your family."

Mister Ramirez quickly looked over at his shoulder at his son before speaking. "What do you mean, 'help us?' Have there been other incidents?"

Not today, Pepper thought but didn't say. "Certainly nothing as drastic as what happened this morning. I have a friend who's a social worker—"

"No, no, no," he said, shaking his head rapidly and rising from his chair. "I can take care of my kids just fine on my own."

"Mister Ramirez, please—"

"My kids are clean and fed. Just because their mother is away doesn't mean someone needs to take them—"

"Mister Ramirez."

"Someone's going to take us away?" a young, fearful voice called out.

Both adults turned to Pedro, and Pepper fought off an audible sigh. "No one is taking you or your sister away, Pedro. I promise." She refocused on his father and once again gestured at the chair across from her desk. "Mister Ramirez, that is not at all what I meant. Please forgive me. If you have a seat, I'd be happy to clarify what I was trying to say."

He stared her down for a minute, and Pepper did her best to keep her body language as open, relaxed, and welcoming as possible. "I don't know how a social worker could help us," he grumbled as he sat. "We're doing fine on our own."

"I have no doubt that you're doing an amazing job being a single dad for the moment," Pepper replied. "And I agree—we haven't had any reports of Pedro being hungry or unkempt, but there are some services that could be made available to you if you wanted to take advantage of them."

She pulled one of Rhodey's business cards out of her drawer and slid it across the desk to him. "This is my friend. I'll give him a call and tell him to expect to hear from you if you want. He can help get Pedro and his sister into some group therapy."

"They don't need therapy, they're fine," he reiterated.

"Sir, with all due respect, your son punched another student in the face today." When he started to bristle and draw in another breath for an argument, Pepper raised her hands in a defensive gesture. "I'm not saying it was out of the blue or a random attack, but he still did it."

She paused to lean forward on her elbows. "I know what it's like to live with someone who battles an addiction. I know that it can sometimes take a toll on you, whether you realize it or not. I can find some groups for you to meet with if you need to talk with people who are in the same circumstance you are."

The father bowed his head for moment, focusing on his hands. Pepper flicked her eyes over to Pedro; the boy was already focused back on his game and didn't appear to be eavesdropping.

"Asking for that kind of help is seen as a weakness in my family," Mister Ramirez admitted quietly. "Probably one of the reasons it took so long for my wife to find help." Gingerly, he reached out for the business card and turned it over a few times with his fingers. "If their grandparents find out—"

"Who's going to tell them?" Pepper asked. "I'd be in breach of several confidentiality laws if I picked up the phone to call them, not that I ever would. And so what if they find out? You just said this kind of thing could've helped your wife out sooner if she'd pursued it."

"I know," he sighed. "And I know she's scared that our kids will pick up on her habit."

Pepper nodded sympathetically. She'd heard Tony talk too many times about the effects of alcoholism running through his family tree. "Whether or not you want to call is up to you, but there are few better in the field than Mister Rhodes."

He stared down at the business card for a few seconds before nodding. "Thank you, Miss Potts."

* * *

><p>Phil leaned his head into Trip's classroom. The teacher sat hunched over his desk, scribbling into a journal. When he caught on to Phil lurking in the doorway, he jerked. The tension in his face dropped away and he smiled—not as easily as Phil was used to seeing, but it was a step in the right direction . "So you've had a bit of a day, huh?" Phil asked.<p>

"Man," Trip sighed as Phil pulled up a chair to sit across for the music teacher's desk. "I know it was only a matter of time before a blow up happened, but Lord have mercy."

Phil smiled and nodded. "Classroom management classes in school are a joke. They run you through hypotheticals and best practices, but this kind of thing is really only learned through trial by fire."

Trip slid his journal across the desk. "I figured an incident like this would need to be written up for our mentorship thing, some report or whatever. So here are my notes. And Mister Fury already asked for my account of what happened, so this is my first draft."

Phil skimmed the neat handwriting and noted how methodically Trip recounted what happened. "You keep the facts clear and simple, without any bias. Takes some teachers years to learn how to do that."

"Thanks," Trip replied. "Still feel like there was something I could've done to keep it from happening."

"Do you have eyes in the back of your head?" Phil asked.

"No," Trip answered with a hint of a smile.

"Have as many arms as an octopus?"

"No, sir."

"Then I guess you'll just have to be reduced to mere mortality like the rest of us teachers."

Trip nodded and ducked his head. "About how long am I allowed to let this eat at me?"

"Long enough to make sure it doesn't happen again, but not so much that you get stuck on it," Phil answered. "Clint would call this a four beer kind of day."

"How does that translate into tequila shots, exactly?"

Phil smiled. "Ask Jessica Drew or Carol Danvers."

Trip sighed and ran his hand over his face. "I should've seen it coming."

"We all saw it coming," Phil said in attempt of reassurance. "We all knew it was a matter of time—we've had these kids for years. You just happened to draw the short stick. But honestly, I'm glad it happened this year," he admitted quietly.

"Why's that?"

Phil paused to weigh his words. "Don't get me wrong, I love May Parker to death. Even more so since this summer, but I don't think she could've handled a situation like this as well as you did. She puts up a front of being a spitfire—and she absolutely is with her personality—but I think she would've gotten hurt today, and the thought of that makes me sick."

Trip nodded. "I'll make sure to do my cardio before breaking out the tequila tonight."

"Because you're clearly so unfit," Phil muttered. "I guess as your mentor, I'm obligated to tell you some story that's nine hundred times worse than what happened to you today to make you feel better about life."

Trip raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Phil began searching his memories.

"I worked at the high school down the road before I came here," Phil said. "You think fifth graders are bad, try know-it-all seventeen-year-olds chock full of hormones."

Trip laughed. "You couldn't pay me enough money to revisit any age between sixteen and twenty-one."

Phil squinted at him. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty-three."

He shook his head. "Wait five years, and that time frame will get bigger. Anyway, I was by myself that day—the other librarian was out on some mental health day, and I still hate her for that." Phil paused to sigh and cringe at some memories. "Let's just say odds are good you'll never have to endure finding evidence of both drug and condom use in your classroom, let alone all in the same morning."

Trip shuddered at that possibility. "Guess I'll count my blessings."

"And your tequila shots."

* * *

><p>Steve tracked Phil back to the library. He trailed after him by about twenty feet after he left Trip's music room, up the stairs, past Barton's (and Bucky's) classrooms, and into the library. Steve could've called out to Phil at any point along the way to get his attention, but he choked on the librarian's name every time he tried. He could hear his mother chiding him for doing such a thing, especially considering what Steve needed to discuss with Phil.<p>

Steve crossed the threshold of the library just in time to hear Clint whine, "Can we please go home now?" The fifth-grade teacher then picked up on Steve's presence and rolled his eyes. "Of course, another one of your teachers needs help with something. Who cares about the state of your husband?"

Phil mocked glared at Clint. "Stop whining and get your feet off my counter."

Steve bit down on his smile and just raised his eyebrows in a silent request to have a word with Phil. When Phil nodded, he spoke. "I can do this another time if you guys really—"

"Oh no," Clint answered. "If I take him home without you telling him what you need, do you know how much shit I'll catch? And do you know how bad I need laid tonight, like—"

"Please stop talking," Phil interrupted before turning back to Steve. "You were saying?"

On impulse, Steve felt his hand begin to rise to rub the back of his neck, but he fought off the nervous tic. "Bucky asked Natasha to stand up with him at the wedding. And, apparently, I'm not allowed to ask my mom to do the same. Bucky said the moms needed to be moms or something, I don't even know." He paused to take a deep breath before his rambling got out of control. "I had to think of someone else and… You were such a good mentor to me when I started working here. And I know Natasha and Trip, even though he's only been here for a month, would immediately vouch for the same thing. You take such good care of us—always willing to let us step out and try new things, but there in a second as back-up if it doesn't work out." He stopped and rolled onto the balls of his feet for a second before continuing. "I want someone up there who has my back. Someone I can go to not just for work, but for help on how to be a good husband."

"We have a mentorship-worthy marriage?" Clint jokingly asked.

"Hush," Phil hissed.

"Anyway," Steve continued, "if you'd be willing, it'd mean a lot to me to have you up there. And if it's not something you want to do, or you're uncomfortable—"

"I'd be honored," Phil responded. Throughout Steve talking to him, the man's eyes had bugged and his eyebrows had made a slow ascent, but now he had that vintage Coulson look of determination and humility. Steve crossed the distance between them, held out his hand, and firmly shook Phil's.

"I'm totally planning the bachelor party," Clint announced as he stood from his seat behind the circulation desk.

"He's not going to do that," Phil promised.

Clint rolled his eyes. "If it were up to you two bores, it'd be some art museum or book signing."

Phil flashed Steve an evil grin. "I could always bring May out of retirement to help with the planning if need be."

Steve cringed and shook his head. "There are still gaps in my memory from Tony's party." He was about to leave when the events of the day crashed into his mind. "Anything special I should do when I have Cage's class on Friday?"

Phil shrugged. "I'll see how they do in my class tomorrow and let you know."

Clint snorted in disgust. "Are you two seriously concerned about seeing them for forty-five minutes once a week? Because I have to work with them for over an hour a day."

"I've had them since they were in pre-school," Phil challenged.

"If we're going to have a pity-off, can we at least do it without our pants on," Clint responded.

"And that's my cue to leave," Steve said. He turned to Phil one last time. "Thank you," he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Phil nodded. "It's my honor."


	6. Chapter 6

"Wow, all this splendor might kill me," Harry said when he stepped into Peter's classroom, and Peter promptly smacked him. Harry laughed. "What? You asked me to help lug in this junk, not compliment you on your— What is that?"

He gestured to the nearest bulletin board, and Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a spelling word wall. When we finish a word, they work in groups to write and illustrate it, and then—"

"Hang it up as a reminder?" Harry guessed. Peter nodded, and Harry huffed out a breath. But in a good way, because the corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile as he did. "You really are an adorable second-grade teacher."

Peter snorted. "You mean you didn't believe me when I told you?"

"I believed that you somehow conned a school into hiring you, sure. That you'd turned into a combination of your aunt and— God, what was her name? The blue-haired old study hall lady from high school?"

Peter stopped emptying the Whole Foods bag he'd stolen from Aunt May to frown. "Miss Robinson?"

"Right!" Peter rolled his eyes, but Harry just grinned brighter. "You're an adorable male them."

"And you're an asshole," Peter retorted.

Harry flapped a hand at him and wandered off to "admire" the bookshelves in the back of the room. Back in high school (which felt like a million years ago or just last week, depending on the day), Harry'd teased Peter ruthlessly about all of his random job aspirations: journalist, scientist, photographer, and finally, elementary school teacher. "Come work at Dad's company," he'd goaded more than once in the hallway, or lunch room, or study hall. "We'll figure out something for you to do, and you won't need a million student loans to do it."

"I'm not sure I'm cut out for being all . . . corporate," Peter'd always replied, and Harry'd always scowled at him.

Sometimes, Peter wondered how they'd stayed friends after all these years. He mostly credited Aunt May's cooking, and Gwen's, well, Gwen-ness.

But Harry also knew a ton of people in all sorts of other businesses, and he'd somehow charmed twenty-five empty plastic soda bottles off some friend-of-a-friend he'd met at a corporate networking whatever. Those, combined with the bags of soil and the tiny, happy plants Peter'd bought at Home Depot over the weekend, would become a long line of homemade windowsill terrariums for the kids to manage through the winter. At least, theoretically.

Peter worried a lot about dead plants, okay?

Worse, he worried about unloading the billion and a half canvas bags of supplies while his friend (in a suit with no tie and shoes that cost more than three months of Peter's rent) browsed Caldecott award winners, but he kept that to himself. Incidentally, he also kept his bubbling nerves to himself when someone rapped on his classroom door and announced, "You know, if you make me look bad with this gardening project, I will collude with your aunt to dye all your underwear pink when you come over to wash it."

Peter swallowed around the spike of dread in his stomach. "Hi, Jessica."

"No, not hi," his team leader said as she waltzed right into his classroom and started—Well, "fingering" was probably not the best word, but she definitely started feeling up one of the little plants. Back by the bookcases, Harry raised both eyebrows; Peter quickly shook his head. "I know I'm not a scientist," Jessica continued, "but I kind of have the market cornered on 'cool stuff in aquariums on the windowsill.' You can't trump my spiders."

Spiders? Harry mouthed.

Peter shook his head harder. Too hard, apparently, because Jessica followed his gaze over her shoulder and whipped around to investigate. Her vampire-style smile—all teeth and glinting eyes—made Peter groan aloud. "I didn't know you brought a friend."

"Just to help me unload the bottles and stuff," Peter said.

"New bottles, donated to the school with my help," Harry clarified, voice oozing with charm. Peter hated his charming tone almost as much as he hated his charming smile-and-handshake combo. Again: how were they still friends? "Harry Osborn. I'm an old friend of Peter's."

"Given that Peter's about twelve, you can't be that old," Jessica retorted. Harry laughed. "I'm Jessica Drew. I'm kind of his boss."

"Except in the hundred ways you're not," Peter muttered.

"Team leader is like 'boss light,' thank you." He rolled his eyes at Jessica—and again at the way Harry just kept grinning. "You're pretty overdressed for swinging by an elementary school at four in the afternoon."

Harry shrugged. "I took a late lunch," he replied, and then paused. Peter knew that pause. He knew and hated that— "If you're ever interested in a late lunch with me—"

"I'll run it by your nanny first?" Jessica finished. This time, Peter laughed, and Harry glared at him. Jessica grinned. "Seriously, it's flattering, but you're a hundred and ten percent not my type."

"Maybe if he had a rap sheet," Peter mumbled.

Aloud.

Like an idiot.

Jessica and Harry both turned to blink at him, but while Harry just looked confused, Jessica looked like she wanted to light him on fire with the power of her mind. Heat crept up his neck as he glanced down at the floor. "I just mean—"

"I'm pretty sure I know exactly what you mean, thanks," Jessica cut him off. "I'll catch you later. Good luck with your plants. Nice to meet you, Osborn."

"Thanks," Harry said, and waved at her back as she stalked out of the room and slightly slammed the door.

Peter groaned aloud and thumped his head, purposely, against the whiteboard. Multiple times. "Should I ask?" Harry interrupted as he erased part of the date with his forehead.

"She's messing around with my aunt's—I don't know. Her roommate?" Harry blinked at that, obviously surprised, and Peter shook his head. "It's a really long story. But Barney's not my aunt's boyfriend, he's Jessica's boyfriend, and I'm pretty sure at least one of them is a drug dealer orsomething, and—"

"Aunt May never did get that upset about the joint she found in your jeans," Harry mused. Peter stopped beating his head against the wall to glare at him, and he held up his hands. "I'm just saying. If ever somebody'd take in a drug dealer—"

"Next time I need bottles, Harry, I'm just drinking fifty liters of Mountain Dew and leaving it at that," Peter snapped back, and Harry, his best friend and total bastard, laughed.

* * *

><p>There was a loud scraping noise as a stool was dragged along Xavier's bar floor. Bucky looked over Steve's shoulder and swore something vicious under his breath. Natasha smirked into her beer, and Steve reluctantly twisted his head around to see Tony Stark approaching their table, bar stool pulled behind him. Pepper caught his eye and mouthed an apology.<p>

This would be the fourth time this week Tony approached him and Bucky about ideas for their wedding. There was everything from private beach ceremony to scouring for some rustic barn and anything in between. Steve always knew Tony's mind worked about a thousand times faster than anyone else's, but he never had a true appreciation for its speed and abilities until it started churning out wedding theme after wedding theme.

"What about a bed and breakfast?" Tony suggested as he angled his way into a spot around the small table. The occupants of the already crammed space—Steve, Bucky, Natasha, and Trip—all glared at the intruder, but Tony was completely unfazed. "Something nice and quiet. But wait, how many people are coming? Barnes, isn't your family tree more populated than some small countries?"

"Tony," Steve warned.

"Not like it's untrue," Natasha muttered.

"You've gotta give me something to work with," Tony whined.

"Who said you were planning this thing?" Bucky asked.

"I would be amazing at this," Tony declared. "It would be meticulously organized—"

"Thanks to Pepper," Natasha pointed out.

"—beautiful, and classy," Tony continued.

"Also thanks to Pepper," Natasha said.

Tony flipped her off and continued. "It would memorable, but I swear not over the top." Natasha opened her mouth again, but Tony glared her into silence. "If you don't want help, fine. But I have connections who could give you the wedding of your dreams. Just think about it."

He pulled his stool away and rejoined his table with Pepper, Bruce, and Peter Parker. Steve watched him walk back, and then turned to Bucky. He expected his fiancé to have some snarky comment, but instead, Bucky looked at his beer bottle like it would reveal all the answers to life's questions. "New guy, what's your dream wedding?" Bucky asked.

"Me?" Trip questioned.

"Anyone else at this table a rookie?"

Natasha shook her head. "He's just rubbing in the fact that he's not new to the school this year. Ignore him."

"But still answer my question," Bucky said.

Trip tilted his head to the side and shrugged. "I dunno, man. Haven't really had a reason to think about it. Figured whatever woman I marry would have a grand plan already laid out and I'd just play along."

"You may not want to use the phrase 'play along' when it happens," Natasha warned.

"Fair point," Trip admitted. He thought about possibilities for a minute before saying, "if I had my druthers, it'd be some big party. Ceremony all short and sweet, and then a celebration that lasted for hours with good music and food."

"And what about you?" Bucky asked Natasha.

She snorted. "You and I both know I'll never get married."

"You've at least kind of planned one," Bucky pointed out.

Steve felt his stomach clinch and wanted to kick him under the table for the comment. While Natasha had been slowly becoming herself again after her break-up with Bruce, asking about her dead fiancé probably wasn't the smartest thing. Her face contorted for half a second before her usual mask slid back into place. "I was just using the wedding as an excuse to try and bankrupt my asshole father. I didn't really care what my dress looked like or what my bridesmaids were going to wear. I just wanted Alex to be home, safe, and mine," she said quietly. "The wedding was just a thing."

Trip's gaze bounced back and forth between each person at the table, trying to find some context to the situation. Bucky and Nat looked at each other, and she shrugged. "Her fiancé was killed in action six months before their wedding," Bucky explained.

Trip let out a low whistle. "Sorry, Nat," he apologized.

Natasha picked at the label on her beer bottle. "It happens." Steve watched her build her walls back up, straighten her shoulders, and put on her usual air of indifference. "But if I had to do it again—which I will never do—I'd just say fuck it and go to Vegas."

Bucky smiled ruefully at Steve. "Now there's one option we haven't considered yet."

"No," Steve said firmly. "My mother would kill me."

"We could take her with us."

Steve shook his head. "We'd never be able to pull her away from the craps table long enough to get her to act as a witness for the ceremony."

* * *

><p>"I've planned weddings," Tony pointed out.<p>

"No, you've planned a wedding," Pepper reminded him and promptly ignored his huffy little eye-roll. They were cleaning up after dinner, but everything from picking up their flatware to rinsing plates before loading them into the dishwasher was punctuated with Tony's continued complaining. Not about the dishes, of course, but about—

"I planned a great wedding," he said, one hand on his hip while he gestured with the other. "At least, I thought it was a great wedding. One of the greatest weddings of all time, possibly. But lemme tell you, a guy can develop a complex when his friends and wife keep reminding him that it was only a single, small wedding."

She stopped wiping down the table to half-glare at him. "If you're accusing me of hating our wedding because I'm not fully on board with—"

He raised his hands. "I'd never accuse you of that to your face because I want to live to see fifty." She cocked her head at him, but he just pursed his lips. A thousand different expressions cycled across his face in the next couple seconds, and she felt her own shoulders soften when he dropped his hands. "You know I want to do something nice for them, right?" he asked. "Something honestly nice, no strings or bullshit attached?"

Pepper smiled gently. "I know."

"Because the way they're acting—never mind everyone else who overhears our conversations, like Banner—"

"Or literally everyone else on staff," Pepper muttered.

Tony scowled at her. "My point," he pressed after a beat, "is that everyone we know seems to think I'm going to, I don't know, rent out the county fairgrounds, fill the exhibition hall with doves, and hire an entire pride parade as the opening act to their wedding. Which'll have a Freddie Mercury impersonator presiding, apparently, because I am that inherently untrustworthy."

He kept his tone light, but Pepper easily read the hurt in his expression as he turned back to the dishwasher. By the time she'd crossed the room and dropped the dishrag in the sink, he'd loaded up the whole silverware basket and started on the plates. He only paused when she slid a hand up his back. "You're not untrustworthy."

"To you, sure. To Banner, maybe, depending on the existential angst of the day."

She sighed. "Tony."

"But to the rest of the staff—"

"You're a force of nature." He jerked his head up at that and twisted to face her, and she shrugged. "Bucky's still pretty new, and Steve— Well, Steve's one of the most understated people we know, with the exception of Bruce and maybe Phil."

"Coulson," Tony corrected.

She rolled her eyes. "Phil," she repeated, and he wrinkled his nose. "You're the man who once spent a weekend rearranging acoustic tiles himself to run upgraded cables in the computer lab because, hey, why not? You donate money half-anonymously to any cause you decide you like, you squirrel away canned goods during the food drive and hand them off to the kids who can't otherwise participate, you have bankrolled at least three of Phil and Clint's anniversary dinners in the last five years." He huffed out a breath at that, almost rolling his eyes, and she spread her fingers across the small of his back. "There's no limit when it comes to making your friends happy," she reminded him, "and that's intimidating to a lot of people. Especially, I think, to Steve and Bucky."

"Yeah, except I've promised them creative freedom," Tony stressed. "Veto power. Budgetary power. I've done everything short of write them articles of wedding planning confederation and they're still acting like I'll invite the cast of three top-billed Broadway musicals just to up the gay factor." She frowned at that, and he threw up his hands. "Am I wrong?"

"No, but if you'd cracked those kinds of jokes when planning our wedding, I would've been nervous, too." He snorted and reached for the last few items in the sink, but Pepper reached out and grabbed his hands. "Maybe the problem's that you're starting with the biggest thing."

He raised his eyebrows. "You never complain when I start with the biggest—"

"I have bigger things that don't involve a second player, and I know how to use them," she interrupted, and he grinned at her warning tone. She almost laughed at him. Instead, she squeezed his hands. "Offer to do something small, first," she suggested. "Help them pick out just one thing, like a venue or a photographer. Invite them over here to meet with one of the thousand event planners in your address book. Do something that doesn't begin and end with 'let me handle the whole thing all at once.'"

The corner of Tony's mouth kicked up in a little smirk. "Incidentally, that's exactly what she—"

She released one of his hands to smack him lightly in the chest. "Tony—"

"You can't hand me innuendo like that on a platter and expect me to ignore it," he defended. She rolled her eyes and started to pull her hand away, but he caught it. His thumb brushed over her knuckles for a few seconds before he finally asked, "You really think that starting small and working my way up to the big stuff will win them over?"

Pepper pursed her lips. "Will every comment about working your way up to their wedding sound like a thinly veiled sex joke?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Some of them will actually be explicit sex jokes with no veiling whatsoever," he admitted.

She laughed and shook her head. "Then I'm sure you'll have no problem earning their wedding-planning trust."

* * *

><p>Sunday nights were reserved for the calm before the storm, as Bucky called it. It usually meant they were ordering food in (enough to leave them leftovers for lunch tomorrow) and watching shitty TV. Part of Bucky was surprised at how easily he and Steve fell into these habits like they'd been doing them together their whole lives and not less than a year.<p>

Tonight's shitty television was courtesy of Steve since he was the first to grab the remote. That meant it was going to be an evening of shows about house renovations. Bucky was a little terrified about how he was able to know the various carpenter TV hosts by name at this point.

He tried to listen to yet another tip on how to install a subway tile backsplash for the kitchen, but his mind kept wondering to all the needling Tony had done this week. The technology teacher had a point: he and Steve had no idea what they wanted for a wedding.

"We need to make a decision," Bucky announced.

Steve looked at him strangely. "I already put in a backsplash, but if you don't like it, we can redo it."

"I don't give two shits about tile, Steve. I mean, what you did looks fantastic and helps the flow of the room, or whatever other bullshit compliment I'm supposed to say to that." He paused to try and frame his words together. This was one of the advantages to Steve usually being the first to do everything—Bucky only had to respond, not open the frightening can of worms. "I'm talking about the wedding. We need to make some decision—hell, any decision—sometime soon or we're going to be catching hell from a lot more people than Stark."

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. "I've just never cared too much about a wedding," he admitted. "I just want a good, solid relationship. A wedding is just one day. And honestly, I never pictured myself getting married."

"Well, while you might be okay with us living in sin for the rest of our days, my ma certainly isn't. And if we don't make some decisions fast, she's going to take over things, and then will be kicking ourselves for not letting Tony run the show."

Steve nodded. "Where do we start?"

Bucky shrugged his shoulders. "I guess big stuff first. Where do you want this to happen?"

"Jersey would probably be easiest for your family, since it's just me and my mom on my side."

Bucky shook his head. "Let's not make it too easy for all my relatives to be there. There are some cousins I'm just fine with never seeing. Besides, the bigger the wedding, the more money we'd have to spend."

"We have the money you were going to use for down payment on a house," Steve pointed out. "And I've got some savings to out in that, too."

"I was kind of hoping to save as much as that as we could," Bucky said. When Steve looked at him with obvious confusion, Bucky felt his mouth go dry. "I know we haven't really talked about kids, but I'd like at least one of them. And they're not going to come cheap for us."

"Oh," Steve said quietly.

Bucky felt his face flush, grabbed the remote, and turned up the television. "Forget it. I shouldn't have brought it up." He wanted to bolt. He wanted to kick himself for saying something stupid like that. An embarrassingly large part of him wanted to run to Nat's, get drunk, and forget about his stupid mouth. But then Steve turned off the television.

"Buck, I thought I was going to die by the age of fifteen," he started. Once Steve was sure he had Bucky's attention, he kept talking. "When you go to sleep each night wondering if you're going to wake up in the morning, you tend not to make grand plans for your life—like weddings and kids. It's not that I don't want those things, I do—especially with you—but I just never thought I'd get there. And even now, it's a little hard to believe that I could be a husband and maybe even a dad."

Bucky smiled at him. "To be fair, even without fighting cancer I didn't think I'd get here either. But since I am, I think we should make the most of it."

"And how do you suppose we do that?" Steve asked.

"I think it's time we bite the bullet and call in Tony, because we clearly can't get our shit together on our own."

Steve cringed. "Are you sure about that?"

"I think with Pepper, Nat, and Phil reining him in, it might be okay." Steve still looked unconvinced by this thought, so Bucky tried another approach. "Maybe we offer to let him throw us some kind of shower. We'll call it a test run."

"You think he can pull it off?" Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged. "I think at the very least we'll get a free wedding shower."

"I don't know," Steve said. "That doesn't completely feel right with me. Feels like we're tricking him or something."

"Steve, it's Tony Stark," Bucky argued. "It's never going to completely feel okay."

* * *

><p>"But I thought the knight moved up two and over—"<p>

"Hang on, the internet is surprisingly unhelpful on chess rules."

An adorable little brow crinkled as adorable little eyes peered up at her, and for one, unglorious instant, Jessica Drew cursed her weakness for chubby Asian children. Especially chubby Asian children in ill-fitting polo shirts who gushed over all of Peter Parker's science lessons and obsessed over chess club. And especially those who had also joined her exotic lizard club for three months last year and really liked it, despite the fact that they lacked any exotic lizards and mostly just poked the class taran—

"Should we ask Mister Stark the rules again?" the very not-chubby, not-Asian Miles Morales asked.

"Mister Stark always knows," Ganke Lee agreed.

"Absolutely not in a million years, now keep your shorts on," Jessica informed both boys, and she swore they sighed in unison.

In case you're wondering how Jessica Drew, a woman who had literally never played non-computer chess until six months ago came to run an elementary school chess club, here's what happened:

A bunch of fifth graders begged Barton for a chess club, but Barton muttered some bullshit about accelerated reader and helping his husband in the library (closet sex is not help, Barton!) and passed the buck to Stark. Stark considered it for a day and a half, decided (quote) "I am literally richer than the rest of the staff combined, why do I need a microscopic stipend for wiping extra noses?", and punted to Carol.

Carol laughed for ten minutes and dropped the whole thing on Jasper Sitwell's lap.

And Jasper Sitwell—

"Sitwell, you're a bastard and a half," Jessica muttered under her breath. Both of the small children blinked at her, and she blinked back. "How much of the actual content of my last sentence did you hear?"

"Something about half of Mister Sitwell?" Ganke replied.

She shrugged. "Far enough away that I won't get fired." The kids looked at each other, but she ignored them to hoot in triumph at the latest website. "Okay, so, officially, knights can move two spaces in one direction and one space in another. Either up, down, left, or right."

Miles scowled, but his adorable friend beamed like he just won the elementary school lottery. (So, what, free M&Ms for life?) "I told you!" he gloated.

Miles pulled a face like he wanted to roll his eyes, and his friend dragged him off. In the back of the room, the fifth graders who loved chess club like most fifth graders love make-believe dating relationships snickered together. Probably at their club advisor's stupidity. Everyone always snickered at Jessica's—

"You ready for a rematch, or should I come back when you're not googling the rules?" someone asked from the doorway.

Jessica heaved a sigh. "Don't you have computers to caress?"

"Caressed them all in the last half-hour. Renamed one the Pepper Two, Little Shop of Horrors style." She rolled her eyes as Tony sauntered into her room and planted his ass on the corner of her desk. "I'm running Mavis Beacon updates all afternoon. No time for computer club."

"But time to annoy me?"

"If the price is right. And since I'm literally richer than the rest of the staff—"

"The more you say that, the more I want to punch you," Jessica cut him off. Tony feigned innocence, one hand to the center of his chest, and she scowled at him. "Seriously, why are you here?"

The feigned innocence suddenly included equally feigned hurt. "Can't one teacher help another teacher in her time of need?"

"Not if one teacher is Tony Stark, no."

"And that," he replied, pointing a finger at her, "is why people both admire and fear you. That attitude." He wiggled the finger around, and for two seconds, she considered breaking it off. "I know you doubt my motives," he continued, "and I know you definitely are worried that Pepper Two will someday become sentient and need blood for sustenance—"

"Okay, who let you near that movie?" she asked.

"Bruce, but don't change the subject." She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded at him to continue. "My point is that I'm actually here to help. You. With chess."

She rolled her lips together. "Seriously?"

He raised one hand. "Higher power I'm supposed to believe in's honest truth," he swore.

She nodded a little unevenly and glanced out at her rag-tag bunch of chess players. The fifth graders had created some kind of complicated round-robin system where you play until you lose a piece, then switch (a chess relay race, perhaps?), the third graders mostly just played checkers with the chess pieces (whatever), and Ganke and Miles kept staring at the board like it held all the secrets to the universe. They were good kids. They deserved a club advisor who didn't need to google how to castle every time the fifth graders asked.

She dragged fingers through her hair. "You're going easy on me," she informed Stark. "None of this 'win in four moves' bull-crap you pulled the first time you came in here."

Tony grinned. "You mean the time you threw a queen at me and threatened to put your hairy spiders in my bed?"

"They're tarantulas," Jessica reminded him for the hundredth time, "but otherwise, yes."

He laughed and grabbed a chess board.

Halfway through the game, after Jessica'd actually captured a couple of his pieces (who knew?) and the second and third graders had formed a loose circle around the teacher-versus-teacher deathmatch (Tony's name), she paused with her hand hovering over a rook. "Stark."

"Ask me whatever you're about to ask me after you move that piece to exactly where I think you're going to move it," he said with a little wave of his hand. "I want to savor this first taste of your defeat."

Jessica immediately dropped her hand into her lap, and the kids laughed. "Stark," she repeated, "could it be that you're here because certain otherteachers kicked you out of their classrooms because of a certain party you're trying to plan?"

The younger kids looked at each other. The older kids stopped playing to look over. Stark just looked vaguely seasick.

At least, until he shook it off. "No idea what you're talking about," he replied. "Now move."

Jessica smirked. "Gladly."

(She lost eight moves later, a small price to pay.)

* * *

><p>While Tuesday was usually reserved for Natasha, Phil decided to have all his mentees—present and past—over for dinner. Clint begrudgingly agreed to cook for all of them, and Phil was grateful for a husband that was easy to bribe.<p>

It hadn't been the easiest start of the school year for most of them. Phil and Clint started the school year still dealing with the Barney aftermath. Natasha had just moved back into her condo after breaking up with Bruce. Trip was in the specific set of tall weeds associated with starting your first year . Honestly, the only one who started off in August in a good mood was Steve.

Phil wanted to have a night where they could just hang out and be friends, to take a moment to catch their breaths—and eat Clint's cooking. Phil just really wanted to have an evening where they could all relax and maybe share some stories to let Trip know the first year of teaching is actually something a person can survive. And since Tony wasn't ever his mentee (Bruce had thankfully fallen on that particular sword), the technology teacher wasn't invited. He made his displeasure about this known over the last few days, but Phil had gotten pretty used to ignoring Tony Stark.

Trip arrived first, followed by Natasha, then finally Steve. Phil and Natasha shared concerned looks about the normally prompt art teacher being the last to arrive, but shrugged it off. If Steve had been wearing a dopey grin while showing up late, then fine. They'd all witnessed that post-coital phenomenon over the last ten months or so, but the art teacher's mouth was drawn in a hard line, and it was obvious to those who knew him that he was putting on a polite face.

Clint served them all one of his magic casseroles for dinner. "I know it's probably nothing compared to the Italian Wonder," he told Steve, "but hopefully you'll deem it good enough."

"And if he doesn't, more for us," Trip commented while spooning out an extra helping on to his plate.

They told stories about what had happened in their classrooms in the last couple weeks, discussed strategies to more effectively monitor the students during recess, but then quickly abandoned work talk to get to know each other better.

Trip talked about how a science teacher and the technology teacher at the middle school next door helped him get his job. "Even though they're younger than me, they graduated ahead of me. They're both really smart. But I guess they were able to put in a good word about me to the gym teacher."

Phil nodded. "And since said gym teacher is married to out principal, I'm sure that went a long way. It's good that you impressed May. The teacher she was mentoring last year ended being horrible and was let go at the end of the year. That's how Wade got the art position."

Clint snorted. "I'm still amazed he hasn't blown anything up yet."

"Not for lack of trying," Steve muttered. When he realized everyone was looking at him expectantly, he shrugged. "He may have called me a couple weeks ago with a kiln crisis."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," Phil said.

Clint turned to him. "It's still weird that you're buddy-buddy with the terrifying wife of Fury."

"She's not that scary," Natasha said.

Clint shook his head. "Only people who are just as bewildering would say that about Melinda May."

Natasha sent him an unimpressed look. "Quit trying to work your spelling words into normal conversation. You sound like an idiot."

"How did you meet May?" Trip asked Phil.

"We were both new teachers in the same year," Phil answered. "After surviving all the meetings the newbies in the district have to suffer through the first few days of their contract, we became friends. She actually convinced Fury to hire me, too, when I wanted to leave the high school."

Clint groaned. "Can you please stop reminding me that those two are responsible for my amazing sex life?"

Steve jumped after that comment from what Phil suspected was kick under the table from Natasha. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "I'm used to you staring off into space, but that's not the face you make when you're thinking about a naked James."

"Sorry," Steve apologized. "Just already regretting the decision to not run off to Vegas." He looked back and forth between Natasha and Phil. "I have a humongous favor to ask of you."

"Keep Stark in check?" Natasha asked.

Steve nodded. "I know he's not always everyone's favorite person to be around, but he is doing something really nice for Bucky and I, which I have to keep reminding myself. Even if he's pestering us will questions and texting us pictures for some story board or something that I don't even understand."

"We'll certainly do our best," Phil promised as Natasha nodded in agreement.

Steve seemed to relax somewhat after that, but only marginally. Once dessert—Phil's favorite cake—was finished, the teachers began to help clean up, but Clint shooed them out of the kitchen and on out of the house. "This was part of Phil's deal," he explained. "I cook, he cleans, and then some other fun stuff happens."

Phil and Clint said their good nights, but then Phil reached out to grab Natasha's wrist. "Hang back a second, would you?"

She nodded, but her face made it clear she wasn't sure what was happening. Once Trip and Steve were gone, Phil led her to the couch. Birdie, who'd been banned to their bedroom to keep from begging for scraps all during dinner was released from her prison by Clint and bounded onto Phil's lap. "Yes, you poor thing," he said sarcastically while scratching between her ears. "How dare we lock you away when your friends were over?"

Clint whistled at the dog while he made his way to the kitchen. "Outside, mutt." The bulldog jumped off Phil's lap and bolted for the back door.

"What's going on?" Natasha asked.

"Two things," Phil told her. "And they both involve someone you aren't too comfortable being around."

"That's a very long list of names," she muttered.

"I think we're going to need help keeping Stark in check for this wedding. I know his intentions will be good, but you know how he gets an idea and then rockets off with it before thinking about whether or not it's a good plan," Phil said.

"I'm sure Pepper will help us keep him in check," Natasha replied. "And I don't have a problem with her."

"He's dancing around telling you that he thinks Bruce would make a good ally." Phil didn't have to turn around to know that his husband had snuck back inside the house and was leaning in the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room. He also wasn't surprised to see Natasha's face open up for a split second to show some vulnerability only to have her usual mask quickly shoved back into place.

"We dated for a few months, and it didn't work out," Natasha said with a shrug. "It's not like we divorced after twenty years of marriage and three kids."

"We all know it meant more than that to you," Phil commented gently. "But, yes, I do think he'd be a good resource in making sure no one will be murdered before Steve and Bucky can get married."

"It's fine," Natasha told them. She was almost convincing about it. "What's the other thing?"

Phil fought back a sigh. "My mother is already calling me twice a week to ask about who's coming to Thanksgiving."

Natasha frowned. Phil had brought her and Bruce to his family's holiday celebration for the last five years. They were both practically family in the eyes of Phil's parents and sisters. "Does she know about what happened?"

Phil nodded. "Not that she would bring it up if you two came, but she made it clear that she's not going to pick favorites. It's an all or nothing kind of deal—either you both come, or neither of you do."

He watched Natasha bristle slightly at that. And Clint caught it, too. "Nope," he said before joining Phil on the couch. "Don't just shut down and pretend you're too good for Thanksgiving. We all know that's a lie."

Natasha nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I'll talk to Pepper in the morning," Phil said. "Maybe Team Restraint can have a coffee meeting or something later this week to talk strategy. Do you think you could talk to Bruce?"

"Sure," she answered.

"If you don't want to—" Phil started.

"It's fine," she told him curtly.

She said her goodbyes after that, and as Phil watched her drive away, he couldn't ignore the twist in his stomach. "Are we doing the right thing with this?" he asked.

Clint shrugged. "Either it will make them stop talking to each other forever, or it'll be the kick in the ass they both clearly need."


	7. Chapter 7

"You realize you're not leaving for another twelve days, right?" Jess asked while draped across Carol's bed. "I mean, I know you military people are all about 'always be prepared' and whatever, but twelve days in advance?"

"That's the Boy Scouts," Carol corrected while pulling a shirt out from underneath Jessica's body.

"Whatever," Jess responded. "Still doesn't answer my question."

Carol sighed. She knew she was acting like a maniac for getting ready this early. And it was inevitable that she'd pack something away that she'd need in the next two weeks, which would make her feel like an even crazier person while she tore apart her condo looking for whatever it was.

Her brain really sucked ass sometimes.

"Just let me be insane, okay?" she told Jess while digging through her underwear drawer.

"Oh, no no no no no," Jessica said while propping herself up on her elbow. "You're about to have your first getaway trip with Sir Dark Chocolate."

"You really need to stop with the somewhat racist nicknames," Carol warned.

"And you really should not be packing pre-existing underwear into your suitcase. This requires a whole new set of bras and panties."

Carol cringed. "I hate that word."

"Does he make your panties moist?" Jess asked with an obnoxious smirk. Carol threw a pair of pants at her head. "Seriously though, a road trip requires you to step up your game. It's not like there's a ton of stuff to do in Texas besides each other."

"Ugh, that reminds me I have to go shopping for a cocktail dress."

Jess squinted at her closet. "I'm pretty sure you have a number of dresses in there."

"Not slutty ones for going to the club," Carol replied. "I need something a little more respectable."

"Maybe James will respect you more for showing a little leg and cleavage?"

Carol sighed. "I'm trying to act like an adult here."

Her friend ducked her head and began tracing the print on Carol's bedspread. "Am I bad a person?"

"Define 'bad,'" Carol joked back. But when Jess didn't respond, Carol tossed a pair of socks into the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. "Who do I need to beat up?"

"I can beat up my own people, thank you," she retorted while sitting up. "The Parker kid said something the other day."

"You know you're going to have to keep going," Carol said. "There's no way I'll let you leave it there, not that you would anyway."

Jess blew bangs out of her face before continuing. "He originally thought Barney and I had dragged his precious Aunt May into some drug dealing ring."

"Please," Carol laughed. "If there's some shady business going down in that house, May isn't going to let anyone but her be the kingpin."

"Right?" Jess agreed. "Parker finally has it through his brilliant but thick head that May isn't doing anything illegal, but I don't think he believes the same about Barney and me."

"Do I need stage an intervention?" Carol asked. "I know we don't make shit as teachers, but if you're making serious bucks on the side, I either need to keep you out of harm's way or demand I be let into the inner circle."

"Fuck off," Jess said while she shoved at Carol's shoulder.

Carol managed to keep from falling off the bed, and while she readjusted her position, she took a second to eye her best friend. "This is really bugging you, isn't it?"

Jess shrugged. "The dichotomy of dating a felon while teaching mostly innocent eight-year-olds is a tricky line to balance."

"Anyone else giving you shit about this?"

"No."

"Parker's a naïve kid who's probably only seen drugs, fist fights, and anything remotely criminal on television," Carol pointed out. "Don't pay attention to him." Jess kept her focus on her fingernails and didn't say anything else. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"You have feelings."

"Shut up," Jess hissed.

Carol didn't know whether to laugh, hug her, or fall off the bed in shock. "No, seriously, you have feelings for Barney Barton. More than just 'I want an orgasm' feelings."

Jess shrugged. "He's not a bad guy. I know he has a rap sheet and Clint probably—"

"Yeah, we're not discussing Barton family issues right now. Back to you."

Jess flipped her off. "It's not like that."

"Not like what?"

Jess's mouth worked for a few seconds before she groaned and fell back on the bed. "I really thought we were just fucking."

"For, what, six months now?"

"Five," Jess corrected.

"Close enough. How many other relationships have you had that didn't last that long?"

"We're not talking about this," Jess mumbled into a pillow. "Let's go back to you and your need to go shopping to be a good, sexy girlfriend."

Carol snorted. "I've already bought supplies for when I don't need clothes; stuff to wear can wait. Let's talk more about you and your feelings."

* * *

><p>"I think we should start with basic—"<p>

"Ground rules? Parameters? Guidelines?" Tony kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, and Bucky tried not to roll his eyes at the way Steve's jaw tightened. "I know you're afraid I'm going to rent out Radio City Music Hall and hire the Rockettes as the opening act to your three-part wedding shower, but you have nothing to worry about. I throw you an awesome party, you profit, and we all bask in the glory of my mad party-planning skills, as the kids say."

Bucky sighed. "Tony—"

"Okay, you're right," he admitted, "the kids don't say that. I'm just trying to bring 'mad skills' back, because I'm sick of 'on point' and 'ratchet.'"

Steve's jaw clenched even further, and for the second time since Tony'd swanned into the house ten minutes ago, Bucky put his hand on his fiancé's knee to keep him from storming out of the room. Despite Pepper's hundred e-mails promising that Tony'd behave himself, the computer teacher'd shown up with vouchers for the upcoming bridal show—"I know it's pretty heteronormative, but all the best caterers in town will be there," he'd said—and brochures for a half-dozen private venues.

"Are those for the wedding or the shower?" Steve'd asked suspiciously.

Tony'd shrugged. "Whatever floats your dirigible," he'd answered, and tossed himself onto the couch.

He'd totally missed Steve's discomfort, too, because he spread his arms along the back of the couch and flashed him a million-dollar smile. "Obviously, you have a whole host of unnecessary reservations about this situation. First, though, I want to talk about—"

"Ground rules," Steve ground out. It sounded almost like a grunt.

Tony blinked. "I thought we just—"

"We appreciate your expertise," Bucky interrupted. Steve snorted like he wanted to laugh, and Bucky dug his fingers into his leg to shut him up. "And after talking, we figured out we're maybe not the guys to do this totally on our own. I think Steve'd happily go down to the courthouse on a Wednesday afternoon, and I don't like cake."

The corner of Steve's mouth kicked up into a grin. "But if it's anything with peaches in it . . . "

"Please do not let that be some kind of euphemism," Tony complained, and this time, Bucky joined Steve in glaring at him. He waved a hand. "You're both very attractive, and I'm not sure Pep and I would kick either one of you out of bed, but—"

"This was a terrible idea," Steve said suddenly. He started to push up off the couch, but Bucky physically shoved him back down. "Buck, I agreed to try this, but if he can't even get ten minutes into the conversation without being—"

"Himself? Because as much as he's just ruined Sheila's peach rolls for me, he's just being himself." Steve pursed his lips and crossed his arms, but he stayed put. Bucky, on the other hand, turned back to Tony. "We have conditions," he said. Tony scoffed and started to roll his eyes, but Bucky stopped him by raising a hand. "You can throw fifteen fits if you want, but you either follow the conditions, or we walk."

Tony huffed a laugh. "And what? Throw the classiest wedding the meeting room at the public library's ever seen? Be my guest."

"That's fine by us." Tony's face crumbled into a frown, and Bucky shrugged. "You think we need a big, showy wedding to be happy together? Because I'm pretty sure you know both of us well enough by now to know that that's not the case. Plus, I have four sisters. I say 'go,' and they'll plan the wedding shower like their lives depend on it."

Next to him, Steve smiled slightly. Bucky grinned and knocked their shoulders together, but Tony just scowled. "You're bluffing," he accused. "There's no way you'd actually disappoint Sainted Mama Rogers and the Barneses by going for a low-maintenance non-wedding." Steve raised his eyebrows, his face all innocence, and Tony squinted at him. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Do you want to find out?" Steve asked.

"As I have a reputation to maintain and a wife who thinks I am on my absolute best behavior right now, no, I do not." Steve's whole face brightened as he tried to stand on his victory grin, and Tony heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Ground rules. Name them."

Bucky grinned. "You might want a pad of paper and a pen."

"Bite me, Barnes. Or, on second thought, list out your stupid rules and then bite me, because I'm sure I'm going to make the same offer again once I hear your ridiculous terms and conditions."

Steve smirked. "You're the one who's always encouraging us to read the terms and conditions, you know."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Only because you'd agree to hand over your first-born child to Apple if the iOS update required it, and as someone who will later want to ruin that child, I'd appreciate you not doing that."

In the end, Tony agreed to allow them to pick the party venue from Tony's top three, preview the menu, and approve the budget. As for the last condition, well—

"Wait, wait, back up," he said, raising his hands, and Bucky cast an admittedly worried look in Steve's direction. "You're requiring that I run all of my decisions—from guest list to flowers to managing your registry—"

Steve frowned. "We don't need a registry."

"And even if we did," Bucky pointed out, "we wouldn't let you manage it."

"—by a panel of busy-bodies?" They nodded, and Tony scowled. "Including my wife, Coulson, Red—who still hates me after the dodgeball incident, by the way—"

"And Bruce." Bucky blinked as he turned to stare at Steve, and he wasn't really surprised to see Tony doing the same. Steve shrugged. "Pepper can't shoulder the whole burden alone."

"Ignoring the burden comment, Pepper is all but contractually obligated to shoulder all of this." Tony gestured to himself, and Bucky rolled his eyes. "Bruce—"

"Is a reasonable adult," Steve finished.

"—is still not talking to Natasha unless he is absolutely required to—and given his talents at avoidance, that is literally never." He and Steve stared at one another until the silence overwhelmed him; then, he groaned and tossed his head back. "It's like you're trying to clip my wings."

Steve's mouth curled up into a smirk. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Or you'll ruin my lucrative future as the school's only successful party planner."

"Or that," Steve replied, and against his better judgment, Bucky laughed.

* * *

><p>Peter kind of wanted to throw up.<p>

His whole body vibrated as he stood outside Jessica Drew's closed classroom door, his hands in his back pockets and his heart hammering like a snare drum. Ever since his idiotic comment about Barney (which only happened because Harry insisted on flirting with every pretty, dark-haired girl in a fifty-mile radius regardless of whether she was a flight attendant, a police officer, or Peter's team leader), he and Jessica had kind of started mutually avoiding each other. Nobody'd set any ground rules or anything, but it felt like that episode of Full House where two of the girls divided the room with masking tape and each resolved to never leave their "side": Jessica worked in her room, Peter worked in his, and they never made eye contact in the hallway.

Also, why did he always watch old Full House reruns on the weekends? He really needed to invest in a better cable package.

A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was still about twenty minutes until Jessica left for the day, which was good. It meant he could maybe pin her down and talk to her without any sort of disaster or distraction. At least, he hoped.

On second thought, if he started grading his spelling tests right now, he could save time on the weekend and not—

"Augh!" he shrieked, not because of the spelling test but because somebody touched his shoulder from behind. He whipped around, heart now firmly in the back of his throat, to find Bucky Barnes standing all of two feet behind him. He stepped back, hands in the air, and Peter released a shuddering breath. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I guess so," Bucky replied, his eyes still wide. "You okay?"

"Me? Okay? Of course I'm okay." Bucky's brow furrowed, and Peter forced a smile. "I just, you know, long day. My mind wandered off on me. Did you need something?"

Bucky shrugged. "I wanted to see if I'd left an assessment book in my old room, but if now's a bad time—"

"Now's a totally fine time," Peter cut him off. "Let's go do that right now."

"If you say so," Bucky replied, a sure sign that he believed exactly none of the words pouring out of Peter's mouth.

As organized as Peter tried to be, his supply cabinets were kind of a mess, and he apologized to Bucky a bunch of times as they rooted through all his various books, papers, blinders, and boxes of markers. To Bucky's credit, he only twitched twice, and given how perfect his room always looked, that was pretty impressive. They were just about done with the last shelf when Peter finally asked, "Have you ever pissed off your team lead?"

Bucky jerked his head up and frowned. "Is this hypothetical?"

"If I lie and say it is, will you believe me?"

"Since you just said it'd be a lie, no."

Peter sighed and leaned against the nearest group of student desks. "I said something stupid to Jessica," he admitted. "I didn't even mean to, but it just came out, and now I'm pretty sure she wants to light me on fire with her mind."

Bucky snorted. "Sounds like Jessica."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather not be cinders and ash."

"Then you tell her that." Bucky closed the cabinet and stood up, his hands falling to his hips. For a second, his posture looked almost exactly like Steve's. "Jessica's kind of a spitfire," he said after a couple seconds, "but she's also good at blurting things she doesn't mean. I think if you talk to her, she'll come around."

"But you're not sure," Peter pointed out.

The fourth-grade teacher shrugged. "Nobody's ever sure about Jess Drew."

By the time Bucky finally left (without his book), Jessica's classroom was dark and her door locked. Peter stared at his reflection in the little window on the door before he turned on his heel and ran toward the entrance. He probably looked like a crazy person, and he took the corner so fast that he almost lost his glasses, but suddenly he was standing outside and panting in the glaring October sun.

Jessica's car was still in the parking lot, but she herself was nowhere to be seen.

At least, not until somebody said, "Parker?"

Turns out, Jessica Drew was standing behind him, her bag in one hand and a stack of papers from her school mailbox in the other. For the first time in forever, she looked less pissed and more confused. She didn't even glare at him, which he appreciated.

She stared at him, her eyebrows raised. He stared back, his breath still coming a little too fast. He really needed to exercise instead of watching Full House.

Finally, though, she rolled her eyes. "Well, good talk, but—"

"I'm sorry." The words fell out of his mouth quickly enough that Jessica reared back and blinked a little. Peter heaved a sigh. "The thing I said about Barney was really inappropriate. I think I've been a little inappropriate all along, really, with the conspiracy fridge and wondering why you and Aunt May are friends and accidentally hearing you and Carol in the copy room—"

Jessica frowned. "Conspiracy fridge?" she asked. "And when did you hear Carol and me in the copy room?"

"Neither of those things are important," Peter immediately retorted. They spent another couple seconds staring each other down before he rubbed a hand over his face. "Can we just start over?" he asked. "I'll be normal and not make crappy comments about your boyfriend, and you can stop wanting to kill me with your mind."

Her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. "If I wanted to kill you with my mind, you'd already be dead."

"And you wonder why people think you're kind of creepy," he said without thinking, and Jessica actually laughed. It boomed out of her and carried into the fall afternoon, and Peter finally released the breath he'd been holding since Harry'd come to school. "Aunt May's making a roast Sunday night. You should come for dinner."

She cocked her head at him. "Shouldn't you let May decide whether she wants me there?"

"She already told me to invite Gwen, and it's not like you won't swing by to see Barney anyway." She started to narrow her eyes, and he held up his hands. "No judgment! I just meant it would be kind of nice for everybody to be there and not let it be, you know—"

"Weird?" she guessed.

"I was going to go with 'horrifyingly awkward,' but weird works, too."

Jessica rolled her eyes, but in a good-natured kind of way. "I don't hate you, you know," she said after a couple seconds. "You're a little squirrelly and you can't keep your mouth shut, but I definitely don't hate you."

Peter grinned. "Hey, I'll take it."

* * *

><p>Bruce was almost finished with his classroom for the week when the knock came at the door. The kindergarten teacher had seriously just wanted to clean up and run away for the week. His young students had reached the point where the newness of school had ebbed, and that always made life a little more challenging. Plus, Bruce had the added bonus of it not being a payday Friday; he wouldn't have to try and fake his way through a good time in order to keep Tony from mother henning him about finding joy in life and whatever.<p>

Finding joy was still exhausting, Not as much as it bad been, but it still took a lot of work.

That was why Bruce had a swallow a sigh when he heard the knock. He knew it wasn't Tony—he'd just barge in already halfway into a conversation. But Bruce wasn't expecting Clint.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

Bruce nodded and waved him toward one of the few adult-sized chairs he had in his classroom while taking a seat at his desk. "Everything okay?"

"Not if your last name is Coulson."

"What's wrong with Phil?"

Clint gave a hint of a rueful grin. "He has Judy for a mother."

Bruce withheld his groan. "She's asking about Thanksgiving already?"

"It's the beginning of October and Thanksgiving is nine weeks away," Clint quipped. "Of course she's asking about it."

Bruce ran his fingertips along the edge of his desk as he did his best to come up with a legitimate excuse to get out of the mess. Clint and Phil had been kind enough to take him in for the last four years, but they weren't really his family, and it was probably time to end things now instead of letting them drag on until he was clearly taking advantage of their hospitality.

"I don't have to go this year, or again," Bruce offered. "It's your guys' family, not mine."

Clint mumbled something under his breath, got up to close the door to the classroom, and reclaimed his seat. Before talking again, he propped his feet up on one of the student tables and gave it a disappointed face that it wasn't taller. "I've been a shit friend to you for the last couple months, and I'm sorry."

Bruce shrugged. "Natasha is basically your little sister."

"And you're my oldest friend here. This is our, what, tenth year teaching together?"

"Eleventh," Bruce corrected. It was hard not to forget exactly when your wife died. Or how this was a year that you were supposed to be a father to a child the same age as your students. Because the thought of losing Natasha hadn't been rough enough to start the school year with, he was also haunted by the specter of a child that never came to be. Not that he mentioned that part of things to anyone, not even Tony.

His heart felt almost as raw as when he'd lost Betty. The double whammy of losing two potentially great things in your life had made him want to avoid everything and everyone lately. He was fine hiding behind the idea that it was his breakup with Natasha that caused all of it. Well, he didn't want the blame to fall entirely on her shoulders, but he wasn't about to open up to the other side of things.

He really should avoid the Coulsons for Thanksgiving. He didn't need to be depressed and sour the entire time hanging around someone else's family and being reminded that he'll never get one of his own.

"Eleven," Clint said. "That's more than any other teacher here. Well, except for crazy old Howard, but she clearly doesn't count." He waited for Bruce to at least acknowledge the joke, but Bruce didn't have the energy for that. "What I'm poorly trying to say is, I should've been more supportive to you in the last couple of months. You both mean a lot to me, and I shouldn't have picked sides. I'm sorry if I offended you with that."

Bruce shrugged. "It's fine."

Clint stared him down in the creepy way only he could, and Bruce fought the urge to break eye contact. "It's not, but we'll readdress that later. Look, here's the deal with Thanksgiving: either you and Nat both have to come, or neither of you is allowed."

Bruce felt his temper flash at what felt like manipulation. He was fine not going to see Phil's family; he knew Tony would take him in or someone else would have pity on him. But unless Steve and Bucky did the same for Natasha, he knew she'd be alone. And she didn't deserve that.

"Whose idea was that?" Bruce asked as calmly as he could.

"Judy's. Consider it her attempt to be ballsier than the rest of us in trying to help get you and Nat to at least be friends again."

That did cause Bruce's anger to flare, and he ground his teeth together. This had been one of his fears, that everyone around them would try and meddle after they'd all been conspicuously absent when things went to shit over the summer.

"Look, I know locking you guys up in a closet and forcing you to be friends again is a terrible idea. And I know I haven't been through a breakup in a decade and really don't have room to act like I know what you're going through, but Judy has a point. You guys are our family, both of you. And we're not going to pick favorites." Clint paused to frown apologetically. "Not anymore than we already have. And again—I really am sorry about that. But really, you are family, whether you believe it or not, and it wouldn't be the same without the two of you there. I'm not saying you have to make a decision right now. Hell, you can you show up just in time for dinner for all I care."

"Won't Judy have a conniption if we try that?"

Clint smiled. "We both know she'll cook enough to feed a dozen Hobbit families regardless of whether or not you give her a heads up." He cringed in embarrassment. "Please don't tell Phil I made a Lord of the Rings joke. That is a nerdy road I do not want to travel down."

"Secret's safe with me," Bruce promised.

Clint nodded in gratitude. "Nat already knows about the deal, and this here officially ends all the meddling Phil and I will be doing. You two talk it out, decide what you want. No pressure from our family. Well, I can't necessarily promise anything on my mother-in-law's behalf, but I can from Phil and me."

"Thanks," Bruce said as Clint got up to leave. He sat at his desk for a moment considering his possibilities. Just as he somewhere drudged up the courage to send Natasha a text to talk over coffee, a new message popped up on his screen.

**Pepper Potts**: Inaugural meeting to contain my husband's wedding planning crazy is tomorrow afternoon at the Starbucks on Fourth. Be there at one, please and thank you.

* * *

><p>"And then, the evil queen says— Miss Darcy."<p>

Alva's huge sigh snapped Darcy right out of her hyper-vigilant state, and when she glanced down, she discovered that the little girl'd crossed her arms over her chest. She forced a smile. "Sorry, kid, what'd I miss?"

Alva jabbed a finger at the crazy scene in the middle of the coffee table. "The evil queen has to stop Elsa from saving the town from the fire pony," she instructed. "Because if the evil queen doesn't stop Elsa, then the car prince can't come and fall in love with her."

Darcy squinted at where the "car prince" laid in "the dark pit of darkness" (a balled-up black scarf shoved inside a shoebox). "I think that's a Transformer."

Alva narrowed her eyes. "If you're not going to play right—"

"Sorry, sorry, evil queen," Darcy apologized, and fished the Barbie with the permanent marker tattoos out of her pile of toys.

She tried to focus on the whole storyline that Alva'd concocted—her Fisher Price Little People town had been infiltrated by a My Little Pony that the boys had painted red and yellow a couple months back, and Elsa and the marker-stained Barbie had to simultaneously menace the little people and save the day—but she kept glancing at the clock on the cable box, too. She blamed Loki's tongue, silver in more ways than one, for tricking her into coming to an Odinson family dinner. After all, she'd happily avoided Thor and the kids like a particularly awful strain of the plague after finding out that Thor knew her secret.

Her tall, dark-haired, very distracting secret, with the hands and the smirk and—

"Miss Darcy!" Alva snapped, and Darcy jerked back out of her thoughts to find the girl glowering at her. "The evil queen can't stand in the farmyard. It will suck out all her magic."

Darcy blinked down at her Barbie, who was in fact standing in a square of white, plastic fences. "Sorry," she muttered, and returned to menacing.

The car prince had just about saved the village from certain death when a door opened somewhere else in the house and Thor's booming laugh carried into the living room. "Daddy!" Alva crowed. By the time Darcy managed to stand up, the girl had already disappeared into the kitchen and started fighting with her brothers (Jane's little helpers) over who got to hug Thor first.

Most of the time, Darcy found their bickering cute.

Right now, she kind of wanted to throw up.

She wasn't sure why, exactly, she felt so nervous—she'd dragged Loki to a work party, after all, and he'd survived that with flying colors—but sitting down with Thor, Jane, and the kids felt real. Like an actual, tangible, adult thing she could touch in a world where her mom harped on her about turning all her adult things into ash and misery. Good as Jane's pep talk had been, it didn't really overcome the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"You're glaring at that Barbie awfully hard," a familiar voice commented lazily, and she rolled her eyes as she glanced over at Loki. He loomed in the doorway to the living room, his shoulder propped against the jamb and a tiny smile on his face. A self-satisfied smile, Darcy thought, and snorted to herself. He frowned. "What? You don't see me for five days, and this is how you greet me?"

"Not my fault I didn't see you for five days," Darcy reminded him as she ditched the stupid doll.

"I believe you said you were being supportive of my 'academic rigor.'"

"No, I was trying to be sexy by saying 'rigor' in a sentence, and you didn't bite." The grin returned, and she smacked him lightly in the chest as soon as she could reach him. "Not that kind of biting."

"You certainly didn't complain about it six days ago," he returned. She tried to toss her head and play hard to get, but he touched her cheek so lightly that she forgot about acting entirely. "I missed you."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you getting sentimental on me?"

Loki shrugged. "Depends on whether you enjoy it," he replied, and leaned down to kiss her.

He kept the kiss light, nothing too dirty or desperate for a house full of children and Nordic busy-bodies. But even a tiny kiss was apparently too much to ask for, because the second Darcy touched Loki's waist, a gasp sounded behind him. They jerked apart to find Henry gaping up at them.

"You're kissing," he said, more shocked than accusatory.

Standing at his shoulder, Alva bounced and clutched her hands to her chest. "Does that mean it's not a secret anymore and you're getting married for real?" she demanded.

Henry whipped around to face her. "What secret?"

George frowned. "I never told."

Alva huffed at both her brothers. "The secret that Miss Darcy and Uncle Loki hold hands and kiss."

"You only hold hands and kiss when you like somebody," Henry informed her with all the third grade authority he could muster. "You do it with your boyfriend or your girlfriend." His brow crinkled, and he glanced back at Darcy and Loki. "Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Uh-huh," George confirmed with a nod.

"And they're getting married," Alva stressed.

Darcy raised her hands. "Nobody's getting married to anybody," she reminded all the kids. "But yeah, Loki and I are—"

"Mister Rogers is getting married to somebody," George volunteered out of nowhere. Darcy frowned at him, and he scuffed his socks on the floor. "Mister Stark said so. He's making a wedding."

Alva beamed. "Then he can make Miss Darcy's wedding!"

"Tony Stark is never planning my wedding," Darcy retorted. All three kids turned to look at her while Loki, helpfully, snickered. She stood on his toe. Hard. "We're not getting married," she said again, a little pushier than the last time, "but we are, you know, kissing. Like boyfriends and girlfriends do."

The kids all fell silent, which felt like a major reminder that Darcy'd never really called Loki her boyfriend aloud. Apparently Loki noticed too, because he released a tiny choking sound and dropped his eyes to his feet. Meant he missed Darcy's truly epic blush, but whatever.

Finally, though, Henry pursed his lips like he was working a really hard math problem. "So you're boyfriend and girlfriend?" he asked carefully.

Darcy opened her mouth to answer, but Loki beat her to the punch. "Yes, we are."

"And Alva and George knew but kept it secret?" the third grader continued.

George's face lit up in the most devious smirk Darcy had ever seen (and she worked with Tony Stark). "Yup! They told us when we saw them kissing in the summer."

Henry blinked. "In the summer?"

His brother nodded. "All the way back in the summer."

For one brief, heart-stopping moment, absolutely nothing happened. At least, until Henry's face flared an amazing shade of fire-engine red. "Mom! Mom, they kept secrets!" he shouted, and by the time Darcy's ears stopped ringing, all three kids had charged into the kitchen to address the alleged secret-keeping.

Loki flinched. "My nephew has quite the set of lungs," he observed.

Darcy rolled her eyes. "Like that's not genetic."

He grinned at her, his face warm and kind of the perfect sight for sore eyes, and she slung an arm around his waist as they started toward the kitchen. They hardly made it three steps before Thor appeared in the hallway, his hands on his hips. His gaze flicked over the two of them, and Darcy fought down her weird urge to raise both hands and back away slowly.

"I see you have once again brought havoc to this house," he said, his voice creepily even.

Darcy swallowed—mostly to stall as she searched for the right words—but Loki just shrugged. "What of it?" he asked.

Thor lasted exactly half a second before breaking into an enormous grin. "When it comes from the two of you, it is more than welcome," he replied, and he clasped them both in a bone-creaking hug before leading them into the chaos.

* * *

><p>The four of them—a quartet Clint dubbed Team Restraint—nestled into a corner booth at Starbucks. Collectively, they side-eyed the hipsters meeting in the other corner. Phil was the only one at risk of having a former student among the group, but thankfully the librarian didn't mention any familiar faces.<p>

Pepper quickly ran through what they needed to address in her mind before she started. "We're here to make sure Steve and Bucky's wedding doesn't become a… What's the word?"

"Tony-centered extravaganza?" Natasha offered.

Phil shrugged. "I think it's well-known that if I had to be stuck on an uninhabited island with any other staff member, Tony would be my last choice, but he has thrown Clint and me some very nice anniversary parties and a somewhat-perfect wedding reception."

Bruce smiled behind his coffee cup. "But if Tony's busy planning something for Steve and Bucky, I'm sure you and Clint won't mind that you can come up with your own anniversary plans this year."

Phil merely grinned his response.

"The trick to this is for Tony to not realize what we're doing," Pepper declared. "We have to let him feel like he's the one making all the decisions, when in actuality we're the ones guiding him there."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. "Are you seriously giving us blanket permission to manipulate your husband?"

Pepper waved her off nonchalantly. "I do it all the time. How do you think our marriage has survived this long?"

"Fair point," Phil muttered. "So what do we do?"

"We need to plan the wedding," Pepper answered.

"I thought they were doing some shower first," Natasha pointed out.

Pepper nodded. "It's basically Tony's interview for the wedding. Right now, they're meeting with one of Tony's photographer friends—the kind that does classy portraits and candids, not the paparazzi kind."

"Important distinction," Bruce said.

Pepper turned her focus to her fellow redhead. "You know Bucky best, what's he going to be looking for with this engagement party?"

Natasha sighed. "Honestly, if he could convince Steve to go to the courthouse this afternoon, he'd do it. But he knows that both of their families want to be in on it, even though the thought of four Barnes sisters and their mother fussing over him during the ceremony terrifies him."

"So family needs to be involved," Pepper said, taking notes. "Have they set a date for the wedding? It will help us know when to schedule the party."

"No," Natasha answered with a shake of her red curls. "I think that's the only reason they're allowing Tony to help out is because between the two of them, they can't make a single decision."

"What about Christmas break?" Bruce suggests. "Sometime where it's easier for everyone to travel?"

"Why not fall break?" Pepper said while she opened the browser on her phone. Natasha supplied the city where all Bucky's relatives lived, and Pepper pulled up the school district's calendar. "They have their fall break in three weeks. We could do it then?"

"You don't think that's cutting things a little close?" Phil asked.

"Tony planned our wedding in three days," Pepper reminded them.

"Yeah, but this time he doesn't have a false positive on a pregnancy test hanging over his head," Bruce pointed out.

"No, but he still has his reputation on the line," Pepper said. She opened up her calendar up and only had to swipe a couple of months forward before an idea set into her mind. "Phil, do you and Clint hate to have to important dates stacked on to the same day?"

It was long bemoaned by Clint that his biggest mistake in marrying Phil was that they decided to get married on the anniversary of their first date, thus depriving them of one less special occasion to mark during the year. "I'm fine with it. Clint is the one who does the whining, but he usually can find some excuse for us to have sex, so it's not really a problem. Why?"

"What about New Year's?" Pepper asked the table.

Phil and Natasha made positive-sounding mumbles, but Bruce stayed silent. Pepper looked at him expectantly. "I don't know why I'm here," he admitted. "I can plan school lessons, but that's all I can really manage."

"You're here to help me keep my husband in line," Pepper informed him. "And if you don't have opinions about wedding planning—which is fine—then just nod encouragingly."

Together, the four of them (well, three plus Bruce's nods) planned out loose ideas for the engagement party and the wedding. The party would be in a few weeks at one of several locations Pepper would lead Tony to suggesting. All were small and cozy, and they had the added bonus of being child-friendly for all of Bucky's nieces and nephews.

Tony would suggest New Year's Eve for the wedding. There were finer details to nail down, but a ceremony ending just in time for a midnight kiss to seal the nuptials and ring in a new year—and a new life together—sounded sickeningly romantic enough for Steve and Bucky. Pepper promised that there would be no doves released at any point during the wedding. She told them she'd go put ideas in Tony's head and fill them in on Monday on how progress was going.

"Oh, Phil, I have that book you let me borrow in the car," she said as she gathered up her purse and planner. "Walk out with me and I'll get it for you."

"Sure," he said as he too rose for the table and followed her out of Starbucks. Along the way to the door, Pepper kept trying to sneak looks over her shoulder at Nat and Bruce, but she sighed and her shoulders fell when she watched them go their separate ways.

"Subtle," Phil commented as he put on a pair of sunglasses that he shouldn't have been able to pull off, but totally did somehow.

"There's nothing more depressing than a broken-hearted Bruce Banner."

"We can't force them to do anything," Phil told her.

"You're telling me you haven't tried anything?"

"Me? No. My mother? Different story."

"I've always liked your mom," Pepper said with a smile.

"That's because you've never been part of one of her schemes."


End file.
